24 Hours
by ecrounox
Summary: Ever since his friends graduated to high school, Georgie's felt more alone than ever. He must face his hardships all by himself now. That is... until he starts talking to a certain delinquent with problems of his own. Kindergarten Goth x Ike Broflovski.
1. Poetry

**A/N: Hey, look. Something South Park related? What? Just a little idea that formed in my head yesterday and I wanted to get it written down. I've always loved the goth kids on SP, so I looked up some fanfictions and got hooked. Everyone who is a SP goth fan should go on deviantart and read the fanfic called "Boys Don't Cry." It's so very lovely.  
I haven't read anything that was based around Kindergoth, so I decided to do this.  
Intentional Kindergoth/Georgie x Ike, filled with depression and darkness. I think this pairing is called Gike? Hm.**

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.  
  
666

A small, delicate young boy sat on the familiar rugs of a room devoid of any light besides the flickering candles scattered around him. He was hunched over a black moleskin notebook, reading the words scrawled in ink made by a calligraphy pen. His black hand-me-down trench coat almost completely covered his tiny frame and he had to make sure the corners of the jacket weren't damaged any further by the soles of his thrift store boots. His button-up shirt was black as well. And so were his thin, dainty lips. If it weren't for his low, coarse voice, people might have mistaken him for a girl. It didn't help that he wore lipstick, but he didn't care what other people thought of him. Their opinions didn't matter. He scratched a few last words onto the lined paper of the journal in his lap and pulled his dyed black hair behind his ear. His sleek, almost feather-like bangs bothered him constantly. A strand of hair fell back down into his view and he blew it away, still reading over his written work. A voice caught his attention and he drew his gaze away from the page to look up.

"What do you have so far, Georgie?" It was his friend, Henrietta. She was the owner of the room where they all sat in a misshapen circle.

Everyone knew him, simply, as Georgie. However, being the youngest of his group of acquaintances, the "conformists", as he and his friends referred to them as, had dubbed him the modest name of "kindergarten goth." "Kindergoth" for short. This alias only seemed to upset him more than he already was, leaving him twitching and distraught each time he was called by the stupid name. But it was something that had stuck to him since elementary school, when he had first started hanging out with his goth friends. At the time he was a mere 6-year-old, far too young by standards to be into goth culture, but he didn't care. Everyone else was a fucking conformist in his opinion. And his view on the Other Kids had stayed the same for all of these seven years. Now he was in 8th grade, and his friends, who were a few years older, were in their junior year of high school. He worried sometimes that they may just move on and leave him behind, isolated and alone, in his last few years of the terrifying thing that was school.

Georgie coughed, a habit that came with smoking. He looked back down at his notebook, needing to squint due to the lack of light. He grumbled about needing his glasses, and blinked his eyes. Finally, he read:

_This feeling of death still lingers  
and scratches at my skin from the inside of its cell.  
It won't let me bloom.  
I've remained a rosebud throughout my life,  
or rather the child trapped inside.  
Life is the only key to let the child out,  
but also unlocks death from its prison.  
If I'm released, death will just kill me  
and leave my corpse bloody and bruised  
underneath it all._

He sat up, adjusting his body so that he could lay his legs out straight. The motion had caused his hair to swing back into his face and he gritted his teeth, deciding there was no point in moving it away and left it the way it was. With his right, unhidden, eye, he looked between the older teenagers. Henrietta, who had asked him about his progress, grinned. The small smile appeared almost menacing thanks to her make up. Her face, as well as her body, was a bit chubby. She had slimmed down since they had first met. She had lost her "baby fat." But she was still a tad overweight. Her hair was also dyed black, her roots showing, and was edgy and thick. It was shoulder length and brushed over the exposed skin of her shoulders as she leaned backwards to spew smoke from her lips. She wore a black, lacy dress that revealed her cleavage under a mesh fishnet shirt; something that her mother did not approve of at all. Henrietta's family was religious and she was forced to wear a gold cross necklace, but she found that it was still Gothic to some extent. It dangled when she stretched her body out some more. Right now she held her upper body up with her left hand, holding stick-like cigarette with the gloved fingers of her right hand. Her legs were folded and rested comfortably to her right. She exhaled more smoke from her nostrils, now adorned with a nose ring, and said, "that was killer." She turned her head to the other two boys in the room. "This kid has some meaningful shit to say, huh? How about you, Dylan?"

Georgie threw his quill pen aside and closed his book, watching the goth named Dylan intently. Dylan grunted from behind the knee he held close to his chest. "Yeah, whatever. Let me finish first." He had a deep monotone kind of voice, which didn't change in pitch like his face with its expression. He read over his notebook paper with his dark brown eyes, underlined with sleepy bags. He didn't wear any make up and his skin was naturally a pale white. He had an eyebrow piercing and a ring protruded from the skin. Georgie watched him flick his hair away from his eyes the way he had always done. He wondered if he ever got neck pain. The fringed hair that fell back into his face was black at the tips, the rest being a rusty shade of red. He reached his arm out and gave his wrist a shake, the sleeve of his grey dress shirt bouncing along with it. He had collected quite a few pieces of jewelry over the past few years, and each of his ring fingers kept several different silver rings on them. His pants were tight and black and looked almost painful to wear, and the very bottom rim of each pant leg drooped over his violet Creepers shoes. After a moment of quickly jotting down his last thoughts, Dylan finally recited his poem out loud for the rest of them to hear over the music now playing from Henrietta's speakers.

_Night is my home and prison  
searing  
trembling  
I await my lover's bloody kisses  
I saw the eyes of Death...  
they will miss me so when i am gone  
I am mocked by foolish mortals  
the blood filled chalice runneth over  
intoxicated with blood  
my soul is dead and nothing is left  
everything and everyone is below me  
endless bleak night_

"Ooooh, who's your lover, Red?" the fourth goth cooed in his sarcastic, monotone voice. His name was Evan, but the Justin/Britney wannabes at school knew him as the "Curly Goth." He had been nicknamed Curly for his wavy, untamed hair. He was the only one out of the bunch that had naturally black hair and, at the moment, it was flopping up and down as he bobbed his head with the beat of the music. He was the one who had given Georgie his trench coat, and it was a hand me down, one that just couldn't fit the taller boy anymore. Evan had replaced it with a new one that many unnecessary straps and zippers covering it, and his hands were shoved into the side pockets. He was wearing a Bauhaus t-shirt that fit him quite nicely. His pants were also tight and black and were tucked into tall shoe-laced thrift store boots. Most likely Doc Martins, Georgie assumed.

"I don't need a lover." Dylan had retorted. He glared straight into Evan's hazel eyes. Georgie glanced between their faces; Dylan's glaring expression versus Evan's calm one. The taller goth's nose released a huff. His nose was quite large and triangular, and made him look very similar to Faris Badwan. The multiple piercings in his ears jingled against each other as he laughed cynically, unable to keep a straight face. He replied, rather smugly, "because you scare them all away. You feel rejected, and so you don't look for one."

Dylan's mouth opened slightly, as if he were about to shoot something back, but Georgie cut him off. He hated when the two argued. It was something he just wasn't used to; they were like best friends. They weren't supposed to act like his parents. He suggested, "hey, Evan, do you have anything to share?" He asked it in the most polite fashion, masking his aggravation underneath a shy smile.

"Actually, it's gotten quite late. I say we wake Henri's brother up with a little band practice." and with that, he reached for the cane leaning against the girl's bed and used it to help himself up. He stretched, once standing, and towered over the other people. "The Battle of the Bands competition is in a few weeks."  
"I still don't understand why we're a part of it." Henrietta said, taking a sip of wine from the glass by her side. She pushed herself up off of the floor, joining Evan, and wiped some lint off of her ruffled dress.  
"We have to show them that we're better than all of their retarded conformist music." Dylan coughed. He ground the end of his cigarette in the ashtray that was between him and where Henrietta was sitting. He offered the tray to the younger boy with a shove from his shoe and pulled himself up by grabbing onto Evan's coat sleeve. He peered back down at Georgie, still sitting on the carpet. The boy was taking small puffs of his fag and stared down at the patterns in the rug. "Hey. Come on." he tapped Georgie's shoe with his own.

Georgie looked up, his cigarette dangling from his lips. They were all at least a foot and a half taller than him, even if and when he stood up. It upset him deep down, even more than he already was. Without a word, he walked past them and made his way towards the opposite corner of the room where Henrietta kept their instruments. Without waiting, he sat down on his stool and picked up the long drum sticks that he had carelessly tossed on the floor the last time he used them. The others joined him a few seconds later. He started hitting the bass drum aggressively, not actually following any rhythm in particular, and watched as his friends took their positions. Henrietta was setting up the sheet music on her keyboard set, the sound of the papers much like the sound her ruffled dress made whenever she moved. Dylan adjusted the strap of his bass guitar on his shoulder. He made a few low-pitched strums and looked to Evan, who was tapping his foot, gaining momentum. The curly haired boy motioned for Georgie to start the drum beat. He breathed in deeply, "3...2...1..."

He hit the first note and continued banging on the drums, all the while staring at the backsides of his fellow goths. They were in front of him. Ahead.

666

Next year, he would be in high school with Evan, Dylan and Henrietta. He could hang out with them and listen to music with them during lunch instead of sitting at a lunch table alone. He wouldn't feel so isolated at school, not that he minded isolating himself from everyone else, since everyone else was a complete douchebag.

Georgie sat with his back against the metal door that allowed trucks to deliver tasteless cafeteria foods to the South Park Middle School. It was the middle of his lunch period. His legs arched in front of him, his moleskin notebook in his lap. He dropped the pen he was writing with beside him and reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes. These tiny, rolled up papers filled with tobacco were the only thing that could keep him from literally going on a killing spree. His fingerless gloved hands searched his coat pockets for a lighter and, once it was found, flicked the tab of the dark blue plastic and created a small flame. As soon as the fire appeared, it vanished. Georgie pouted, feeling the wind slapping him across the face. He shielded the lighter with his hand, and, gripping the cigarette between his teeth, leaned forward and flicked the tab again. The flame appeared again and consumed the end of the paper cylinder. He smiled slightly and returned the cheap lighter to his pocket once it had done its job. He sucked in and let his index and middle finger pull the cigarette away from his mouth. Smoke emitted from his mouth as he slowly exhaled. His gaze shifted from the ceiling of the awning above him to the lipstick residue left behind on the filter of his fag. Black. Like his soul.

Georgie sighed, bringing the fag back to his lips and retrieving his pen, once again, to begin writing. From behind the grey fog violently dancing with the wind, he could see several figures running around like buzzards in the snowy field in the distance. They were just some kids from school. Jocks. Tossing around a football and not achieving anything in particular, just like they always did. Since kindergarten. He had known almost everyone in his grade since he was a kid and, unfortunately, they all knew him. A sudden crash caused by the leather ball they were playing with sent a jolt up his spine and he looked over. Their ball had almost hit him. It had bounced off of the metal delivery door he was leaning against and rolled onto the ground beside him, halting when it touched his hip. He slammed his notebook closed and practically spat out his cigarette.

"What do you faggots think you're doing?" Georgie shouted, grabbing the ball and throwing it against the ground. No one interrupted his peacefulness, he had made sure of that. He glared at the three boys approaching him and managed to stand up, even with the rage boiling inside of him. One of the jocks picked up the ball from the ground and gave a cruel laugh. "We're not the faggots here, sunshine." The other two joined in. "Yeah, what kind of lame throw was _that_?" one said. "It was an _accident_, girly." the other taunted.

"Fuckers." the small goth said under his breath. He inhaled a bit too much cold air and coughed, holding his fist to his mouth as if it would help. Through squinted eyes, he saw that the boy carrying the leather ball had stomped on the cigarette that Georgie had neglected and let fall to the ground. The boy twisted his foot and destroyed what was left of the burning paper. He grinned, just trying to get some fight out of Georgie. "Smoking's bad for you, Georgieeeee." he emphasized the last syllable of the goth's name. He simply spun around, his black hair whipping his face, and walked over to his belongings. He picked up his precious notebook, pen, and swung the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. With notebook under arm, he took one last glare at the group of boys and walked away, turning around the corner of the building close by.

"Going to write in your diary elsewhere?" one of the jocks continued to tease, yelling because Georgie was out of sight.

"You pathetic conformists! You wouldn't know poetry even if it bit you in the ass and chewed it off!" he snapped back over his shoulder, continuing with his quest to get away from them. His toes were cold from the constant Colorado weather and he took extra care not to get any snow in his shoes. Concentrating on something like that, however, was proving to be hard when all he could think about at the moment was how angry he was. He slowed his steps and dug his hands into the pockets of Evan's old trench coat. He chewed his bottom lip, regretting the action when he tasted blood. Too bad. He had made it back to a door that would let him inside the school and pushed it open, instantly feeling heat and relief flood throughout his body. The hallway that the door led to was unfortunately crowded with the Other Kids leaving the lunch room to go outside. He dodged each one, making a turn into a separate hall, passing the painted green lockers, and stormed into the nearest boy's restroom.

Thankfully, no one else seemed to be in there. Georgie hunched over, more relieved to be in the safety of the bathroom than when he had gotten inside the actual building. He stood up straight and pulled his long bangs back behind his ear. The sudden sound of a toilet flushing echoed throughout the tiled room and made Georgie twist his head to find the source of the sound, his hair falling back into place without fail. The ringing sound that the toilet made continued. The goth's gaze drifted between each of the open doors and he noticed a shadow on the tiled floor of a small stall. His ears picked up the sound of papers shuffling and water dripping over the side of the plastic seat cover. He unconsciously moved forward to see what anyone could possibly be doing to an innocent toilet with the stall door open. He reached out and opened the door hiding the suspicious actions taking place and saw an overflowing toilet, along with another boy about his age kneeling over it with handfuls of crumbled paper towels. His initial reaction was, "dude, what do you think you're doing?"

The other boy's head turned to face him and Georgie could recognize him as Ike Broflovski from his very own class. The look on his face said something threatening and fierce and made Georgie want to look away. But he kept his eyes locked in place, staring Ike down with his own interrogating look. The boy's eyes were a light blue, and matched the color of the hoodie he wore. His hood covered most of his head, but black hair could be made out that stuck out from under the rim of the blue fabric. Ike's glare shifted to the wads of brown paper that he clutched with his fists. The water spilling out of the toilet had become a small puddle that spread out, consuming the boy's jeans and the bottoms of Georgie's shoes. Ike instantly stood up, water running down the side of his leg, and still held the paper towels. Georgie raised a brow, trying to make sense of what he was doing. Obviously he was clogging the toilet, but why? He didn't know enough about him to understand and simply shrugged. "Whatever."

Ike wiggled in place. Not only was he not going to speak or answer the Kindergoth's question, he was also not going to move. Georgie was watching the water in the toilet, and he took the opportunity to look the goth up and down. He was short, tiny, wore nothing but black clothes, and could probably pass off as a girl, if people didn't know him that well. They hadn't talked once since they were in kindergarten, but Ike knew that he hung out with the goth kids in his older brother, Kyle's, grade. Which was a frightening thought. He smelled like cigarette smoke.

A few moments passed and the bell rang for next period. Georgie looked skywards, towards the intercom on the ceiling where the shrill sound transmitted from. He heard the other boy drop the papers into the the puddle growing on the tiles. Ike's shoes splashed loudly as he brushed past the goth, who was trying to burn a hole on the back of his retreating head with a glare. He watched his hoodie disappear as the restroom door was opened, and Ike merged into the crowd forming outside in the hallway. He shrugged. He could go for another smoke before English class. With one last glance down at the clogged toilet, he turned around and left the bathroom, wondering out loud, "why are the people at this school so weird?"

666

**A/N: The title comes from my favorite song by Joy Division, "Twenty Four Hours."  
To anyone in the audience: Tell me what you think! Criticize, bash, let your opinions run free, and maybe even squeeze in a compliment. I spent more time and effort to write this than I normally do, and I'm actually proud of this.  
For the second poem, I couldn't think of anything and needed something cheesy and goth, so I turned to the Gothic Poem Generator. It's really quite funny. Look it up D:  
Also, random question, who is your favorite SP character? And WHY?**


	2. Games

**A/N: Hello again. I haven't much to say, so I'll just get on with this. Thank you for reading~**

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

666

The sound of shoes hammering against the tile floors of the hallways could be heard even over the obnoxious noises that the students made. The tardy bell had just rung, sending the owner of the shoes to speed up his pace. Meanwhile, the middle-aged teacher, sporting a useless megaphone, tried to calm the rambunctious 8th graders and subdue them into taking their seats. They only obliged when the teacher spoke into the plastic megaphone, each kid filing into the rows of desks. Among them was Ike Broflovski, who slumped into his assigned seat at the far end of the room, just one seat away from the window. His pants were still wet, from his knees to the bottom rim of each pant leg. He squinted his eyes. The mid day sun was pouring into the room from behind the glass and made the area around him much hotter. He pulled at the neck line of his sweatshirt, releasing some heat. It didn't help much and he was forced to pull the blue fabric up and over his head, stuffing it behind him in his seat. The freed shirt he was wearing underneath was now exposed. A long sleeve shirt with the Canadian flag on its center. How predictable.

"Ah, how good of you to join us, George." The footsteps coming from the hallway stopped at the door to the English room. Walking into the classroom was the very same little goth kid that Ike had encountered in the bathroom just moments ago. Why he was late, and just coming in now, was a question Ike had no answer for. The goth stopped in front of the teacher at his desk to grumble, "it's Georgie."

Georgie. That was his name. It didn't seem right, considering how everyone else simply called him "Kindergarten Goth." Ike leaned forward in his chair and crossed his arms only to set them on the flat surface before him. He noticed how the teacher made loud sniffling noises and looked at Georgie with a disgusted expression. He had smelled smoke on him before and had done the same thing. He watched as the boy's trench coat made a dramatic swoop as he took his seat in the middle row. The other, taller heads of a couple of boys surrounding him were making it impossible to see anything but a black shoulder. Ike merely shrugged, ignoring his curiosity and need to study, and began scribbling things on his desk.

"Alright, class. It's time to take out your personal essay drafts. We'll be working more on those today." The teacher spoke without his megaphone, which had been placed underneath his desk. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together to get the attention of the students instead. "Let's use the lesson from yesterday to help us." Ike looked up and scratched an itch underneath his ebony black hair. That was right, they were working on a personal essay in this class. He reached for his pile of books under his seat and pulled out a crisp black folder that contained his work. He had already revised, edited, typed up, edited again... Ike was completely finished with his essay. A whopping six pages about his being adopted, all wrapped up with a fancy ribbon and bow. He was sure it would get an A+. His parents would be so pleased. Ike tapped the stack of papers on the flat surface of his desk to make them straight and promptly got up to turn his essay in to the teacher.

"I finished mine early." He slapped the neatly stapled papers in front of the teacher and stood with his thumbs pressed against the cold metal desk, waiting for a response. The teacher was hastily typing some things into a laptop and didn't notice him. He began to shuffle awkwardly, eying the other pre-teens from the front of the room. The majority of the class was turning every which way and that to face their friends and joke about YouTube videos or something that Ike didn't care much about. He noticed, however, one person rise above everyone else. The same kid dressed in black that he'd seen in the bathroom and walked in late. Then again, wasn't this kid always late to class? He stared at the ground trying to remember all of the instances and averted his gaze only when he realized Georgie was standing, hunched over, beside him.

"I finished mine early." the boy grumbled, the scent of cigarettes on his breath. His sleek black bangs were pulled back behind his ear in an almost feminine fashion and fell back in front of his left eye when he made a swift movement to smack his own paper down. Ike winced. He stole a glance down at the goth, whom he practically towered over. He was glaring back at him and, without even changing his tone or expression, asked him something in a foreign language, "êtes-vous fait, lui aussi?"

"E-excuse me?" Ike raised an eyebrow.

Georgie looked down and searched for something in his coat pocket. He pulled out a stick of gum, cinnamon-flavored, and placed it in between his stained teeth. His jaw opened slightly and the gum fell inside his mouth for him to chew. "I asked if you were done, too. They speak French in Canada." his voice was almost gritty, like a child who had a smoker's rasp, which was probably the case, and he gestured to the maple leaf flag on the other boy's shirt. Ike blinked, unsure of what to say. He decided to answer the boy's question, "Um, yeah, I finished last night."

The goth was barely paying attention, more inclined to staring down the teacher for his attention. Without looking back at Ike, he replied, "Good for you." He coughed, though Ike wasn't sure whether it was real or fake. Whatever it was, it caught their English teacher's attention and he looked up at the two of them. Georgie gestured to the papers they had left on his desk with a nod and blew a tiny bubble with his chewing gum. The small pink sphere burst, making a smacking noise, and the boy withdrew the stretchy substance and started chewing on it once again. The teacher winced and squinted his eyes toward the gum-chewer.

"Spit out your gum, it's not allowed during class."

Ike observed the goth's irritable behavior as he blew another bubble and repeated the process, abbreviating the last few chewing noises until he turned his head to the side and spat the wad into the trashcan by the side of the desk. It fell between the folds of some crumbled paper. He then turned back to the teacher, and uttered, "we're done. What now?"

"You're done? Really? Wow." the teacher picked up both stacks of stapled papers. "You weren't supposed to be done for another two weeks, too." He flipped through each of their papers and leaned forward to adjust himself. "These look great, actually. I'll read them over. In the meantime-" he placed the papers on top of his laptop keyboard, "you're free to do homework from other classes." The teacher glanced over the shorter teen's shoulder at the rest of the class, two rowdy boys in particular, and clapped his hand to his desk to get them to stop. Ike looked over his shoulder at them and while turning back around noticed the goth waving his hands in a sarcastic fashion. He mumbled, "whoopee." And, with another dramatic swoop of his coat, spun around to return to his seat. Ike stared him down and watched as he sat amongst the other, more obnoxious and loud, students. He pulled out a book and a pair of glasses, adjusted the thick-rimmed spectacles on his nose, and started reading. Ike had to squint his eyes to try and see the title of the book but it wasn't visible. His fingers gripped the edge of the teacher's desk.

"Oh, and Ike..." The teacher started saying, without even lifting his eyes from his computer monitor, "the principal wants you to report to her office. Take the hall pass."

The boy sighed with either fake exhaustion or relief. Good, they _had_ discovered his wrongdoings. He swiftly grabbed the plastic pass somewhere on his teacher's desk and headed for the door. Only a few students took noticed, the short goth kid being one of them, and soon went back to what they were originally doing.  
Georgie dabbed his thumb and index finger against his tongue and flicked a page of his "Poems by Poe," all the while watching Ike's retreating figure once again. Somehow he knew it had to do with their encounter before, as well as his wet pants. Whatever Broflovski was doing with the toilet earlier. He looked around him, glowering at each and every other face he saw. He glanced back at the door, just about to close shut, and felt envious. He raked the skin of his arm, just itching to leave the room, too.

666

"This is the third time this week, young man." she had told him.

"You'll be going to detention for the next two weeks." she threatened.

Ike tugged the silky green fabric of his gym shorts on to no avail. He thought about his conversation with the principal, who seemed rather upset. But that was inevitable. He hoped his mom would react the same way. A sigh escaped his lips. The shorts wouldn't cover his knees like the way he wanted them to and he was already late to get on the track field for P.E. The fabric clung to his skin from the humidity of the room. The room wreaked of body odor and fresh shower water droplets raced down the sides of the small, green lockers. He slipped out of his shirt and reached into his own personal locker for his gym shirt, stretching his arms out off each sleeve. This was stupid. Why the hell would they be forcing kids to run around outside with short sleeve shirts and shorts? This was South Park. The cold weather never ceased. He growled, shoving his day clothes into the compact locker and slamming the door. He tied the shoelaces of his dirty white sneakers and jogged out the door, avoiding small puddles of shower water.

The wind hadn't left since lunch, nor had the bright sunlight. The boy had to shield his eyes with his arm, squinting at the track on the side of the school building where the others in his class were either running feverishly, trudging along like cars with deflated tires, or walking in groups and laughing. There were several concrete rings of track circling a small patch of snow covered grass where he spotted the coach whistling at two girls who were lagging behind. Ike jogged over to the grey haired man and dropped his arm to his side again. He slapped on a fake, apologetic smile. "Sorry, Coach, Principal Victoria wanted to talk to me."

The man whistled once more at the two girls and Ike wondered if maybe he should just trade for the English's teacher's megaphone. He turned to face the boy and scratched his grey mustache. "S'alright, Ike. We're doing the usual routine. 5 laps, 50 sit-ups, 20 push-ups." As he removed his nails from his facial hair, several other boys collapsed on the grass several feet away, each wearing identical uniforms to Ike. They got into position to start their sit-ups and heaved their torsos into the air with their hands behind their heads, puffing air from their cheeks. The gym instructor made little notes on his clip board with a pleased smile. He turned back to Ike and grunted, "Run or you'll be doing an extra 20 of those." He pointed to the boys in the grass with his pencil and the black-haired boy gulped. Ike jogged onto the track, coming up behind a group of giggling girls who were moving too slow for his taste. It looked like there were maybe six of them all gathered in a tight group that took up the space of all of the track's rings. He went around them and bumped, once again, into the shoulder of the goth kid who seemed to be making more and more appearances throughout Ike's day.

The shorter boy jerked around to face whoever dared to break his personal barrier, his long black bangs whipping his face. There were thin wires protruding from his ears which he removed abruptly, the sound of music being emitted from the buds on the ends masked by the wind. His harsh glare burned holes into Ike's face as he looked down at the other. The goth was no longer wearing any black, and instead wore the required gym uniform which made him appear much smaller with his tiny limbs. Though they continued to walk, Ike inched away, holding his hands up in front of him as if he were about to be handcuffed by the police. He mumbled a "sorry" and took off down the concrete ring, leaving Georgie to wallow away as he stuffed his head phones back into his ears. He muttered, still glaring at the figure running away, "Fucking basket case."

Ike felt chills throughout his body and it wasn't from being startled. The cold air brushed against his legs and arms and he suddenly realized he had left his jacket in his last period. Although the sun was visible, it's light wasn't reaching the track field anymore and its heat was obviously missed by everyone outside. He continued to run to stay warm, quickly finishing his laps, and made his way to the center of the grassy area to complete the other tasks. He lied down in what was left of the grass, ignoring its coldness, and brought his chest to his knees. He puffed and went back down, then up again and proceeded to do so until he was done. Sweat ran down his back and made him even more cold. He gritted his teeth and noticed how everyone else was just finishing up their push-ups. Except Georgie, who sat much farther away from the group and faced the mountains in the distance. The coach stood above the class as they finished, glaring down at the goth and shaking his head with little to no surprise. His eyes scanned the rest of the students and then fell on Ike, who quickly went back to doing his sit-ups.

The coach sniffed and whistled for the others to pay attention. He didn't wait for Ike to finish, who simply stopped altogether to look back up, and grumbled, "Today we're playing soccer. I'll be assigning team captains. Filmore," he pointed to a boy with spiked black hair, "and Jenny." he then pointed to a girl with curly hair who squealed with delight. He coughed and continued, "Pick your teammates."

_Pick your teammates._ This translated to "pick your friends." Something in Ike's gut didn't like this idea. However, he shook it off and got up to stand like the others as the two team captains took turns choosing between each of the other 8th graders. Jenny picked one of her friends. _The outcome is going to be obvious, _Ike thought as he watched Filmore choose one of the more muscular boys of the class. The sad part about living in South Park was that each grade practically grew up side by side, hand in hand, and not knowing the skills and attributes of someone was rather difficult; unless they were the anti-social type and kept to themselves. Jenny once again picked one of her friends and Filmore picked one of his own. Pretty soon, the only three left were a ditsy girl named Flora, the goth kid, and Ike himself. This was inevitable. Predictable. Ike heard his name being called by Filmore and a few other boys. He was being summoned to join them and, curling his fingers into tight fists, walked over to stand with the group. Once he had turned around he looked back at the other two sitting on the ground.

Flora was staring off into space and twisting her blond hair around her index finger. She was giggling to herself for some odd reason, but everyone knew it was just one of the many things that made up her oddball personality. She chewed on a fingernail and blinked when she heard her name being called, jumped up and happily skipped over to merge with the opposing team. It looked as though it would be a boys against girls game. Before the remaining boy joined Filmore's side, Ike noticed him spit on the ground with disdain. He pulled himself up from his hunched over position, muttering something like "you're all a bunch of nazi cheerleaders" to Jenny's team, and followed the rest of the boys to one side of the field.

The coach had set up several florescent yellow traffic cones to act as goal posts. Ike huddled with the others, trying not to bump into the cones, as Filmore assigned their positions. "Cody, you be goalie. You three play defense, um..." he skimmed the rest of the others with his eyes, "everyone else play offense." He peered over their heads to see what Jenny's team was doing. "This should be easy."

The kids broke away and resumed their positions, everyone but the goalie actually knowing where to go. Ike stood idly waiting for the game to start and breathed into his cupped hands to keep them warm. He looked on as Filmore and a few others went off to the center of the field where the coach stood with their weathered soccer ball. He threw the ball in and one of the girls instantly kicked it away from Filmore. The boy chased after it and yelled, laughing, dodging everyone in his way as he sought out someone to kick the ball to. Ike watched on, rubbing his arm with a sweaty palm, and hoped that by hiding behind some other kids he could simply stand for the rest of the game. He despised the game of soccer and his actions proved just that. The same appeared to be true for the goth kid standing several meters away.

Georgie glared his way and stuck out his tongue. "Quit staring." he sneered. He tucked his bangs behind his ear and turned to watch the ball being carelessly kicked around by the jocks of their class. One of the girls came around and captured the ball with her foot, tucking it behind her and kicking it in their direction. Ike backed away from the ball. The goth surprisingly moved towards it and he watched intently at the boys footwork. Georgie's black sneaker lashed out and made contact with the ball, forcing it to fly away to the middle of the field. Everyone made a double take to see who was the culprit behind the ball's sudden movement and grew shocked. They turned away, however, to continue playing. Filmore aggressively kicked the ball across the field to the girl's side. The goth shrugged and proceeded to watch. Ike remained in awe, staring unconsciously at him until he caught his attention and the boy once again told him to "quit staring."

"Sorry!" he apologized quickly and looked away, pretending to look for where the ball was. "I'm just a little surprised." he muttered over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well, kicking a ball around is a ventilation system for rage." the goth said quietly but loud enough for Ike to hear him. "Maybe _you_ would understand." Although Ike wasn't looking, he could hear the faint sound of Georgie sniffling. The goth held a hand out in front of him and picked at a nail, then blew on his knuckles. "You know, everyone else just plays for the competition. Like winning is a primal instinct." he sniffed once again. "I detest them."

"You're a very negative person." Ike replied, not entirely paying attention. There was cheering coming from the girl's goal post and he looked in that direction to investigate. "I think our team scored." By then, the kids that Ike hid behind had left and gone over to cheer with their teammates. It was just a goal. He hated soccer. The other boy simply frowned and slumped onto the grass. He crossed his legs and let his arms dangle over his knees. He looked up at Ike, still looking off in the distance, and asked, "Do you really care?" Ike shifted his gaze to look Georgie in the eyes and pondered his answer for a second. The comment about how their team scored was probably just his way of creating small talk. _It was just a goal._ He had said to himself. He dug his shoe into the ground and replied, "No. Not really."

666

**A/N: Tell me what you guys think so far! Again, I ask that you criticize, bash, let your opinions run free and maybe even squeeze in a compliment.  
N'aw, turns out that if Ike was in the 8th grade, he would only be 11. I did my South Park research. Ike is actually 3 years old in kindergarten because he's a genius. YEP. But I'm going to ignore that minor age detail while I'm writing this. For the sake of a good story! Yaaaaaaaaaaay.**

Random question (because they generate conversation): What is/are your favorite episode(s) of South Park? I kind of love the Coon & Friends "saga." Twas epic and had the goths in it.

Happy New Year! I want some frozen yogurt.


	3. Drinks

**A/N: Hello everyone. Here is this week's chapter. It took way more time to write this than I thought it would, but at least it's longer than usual. I'm working especially hard, so I ask that you give me your feedback so that I don't feel like my effort has been wasted :v** **This chapter turned out to not have much of a plot but there are some small things in here that will help explain things later on as the story moves forward.**

**Thank you, Meso the Hanyo, for distracting me from my work. xD**

**Disclaimer: Characters are obviously (c) Matt and Trey**

The young goth boy walked peacefully along through the hick mountain town of South Park. He trudged through his neighbor's yet to be shoveled yards, unable to hear the crunching noises of the snow below him as he set foot through it with his black shoes. His Tones On Tail album played loudly from his headphones and drowned out any other noise, including an elderly man complaining about the new foot prints in his lawn. "Hey! Martin kid!" the man referred to the boy by his surname, not realizing he was going unheard. "How many times do I have to tell you? Stay off my property!" The boy glanced towards the man sitting on his porch and reached for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. The tiny little band pins on the bag's flap jingled and clinked against each other and seemed to have caught the attention of a nearby dog, who started to bark maniacally. Georgie placed one of the paper sticks in between his smudged black lips and flicked the lighter's tab, instantly inhaling in plain sight of the older man. He blew a satisfying stream of smoke into the air and shut his eyelids. All sounds around him were masked by the catchy symbol beats of the song "Christian Says" now being played on his CD player. He stuffed the cigarette package and lighter into a jacket pocket and continued on his way. "You," his neighbor croaked, "are going to be the death of me with your secondhand smoke!"

The boy pulled the rolled up tobacco away from his face and came around the hedges that separated his own yard from the grouchy man next door. The house looked no more ordinary than every other house in the town, which annoyed him. A simple brick red 2-story home. 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and a basement. The basement was Georgie's room. He had asked his parents to allow him to move from the upstairs to the basement and, most likely because they wanted to make sure he was happy, gave in to his request. Their cars weren't in the driveway yet and weren't expected to arrive anytime soon. Georgie walked up the concrete pathway to the front door and stood outside while he enjoyed the last few puffs of his cigarette. There was about half an inch left before it reached the filter and the air outside was frigid despite the sun trying to inch through breaks in the clouds, he wanted to get inside. He took one last look down the road, towards the mountains in the distance, and dropped the fag right beside the welcome mat. He ground the butt with his shoe, picked it up and tossed it into the small tin mailbox hanging beside their doorbell. His parents didn't know that their young son was already a smoker and blamed the smell and the butts lying around to his no-good friends. His mother, being to over protective wretch that she was, told him continuously to stop hanging out with Evan, Dylan and Henrietta. They weren't allowed inside or anywhere near Georgie's house. They were a "bad influence" and rotted his brain more than television could ever. They were polluting his mind with their "filthy dark culture." Georgie dug through his bag for his set of keys and thought about driving one of the knives that his mother hadn't yet found under his bed into her skull. He was certain his dad wanted to do the same.

"_Christian says you can't be happy being this way_." the vocalist's voice pulsed through the boy's ears. No truer, more ironic words could have been said at that very moment. Georgie grasped the silver keys between his fingers and pulled them out to let himself inside. After a moment of struggle to turn the key in the keyhole, he finally managed to swing the door open. He took in the familiar scent of home and sneered to himself for just a second before actually walking inside the front room. Overall, the house was utterly average and dull. The carpet was a shade of red and the wallpaper a shade of beige. A leather couch, coffee table, lamp, television set and a bookshelf made up the furniture of the room before him. It was all too clean and perfect. It was almost suspicious. Without even scanning the area, Georgie kicked off his shoes and neglected to place them on the shoe rack before heading towards the door underneath the staircase. He passed up the kitchen behind the next door over and quickly descended the creaking stairs into his sanctuary.

At the bottom of the steps, the boy set his foot down on the concrete floor and tossed his school bag against the wall. Almost every square foot of the opposite wall was covered in band posters and art work he had printed off of the internet. What Georgie liked most about the basement was how cool and dark it was, even with the overhead lamp turned on. The light hung over his small bookshelf that contained numerous horror novels and trinkets that he had collected over the years. His music continued to play in his headphones and he yanked each bud out of his ears. With a tap of a power button on the CD player in his jacket pocket, he took the trench coat off to throw it over the railing of the stairs. He blew his bangs out of his face and walked several feet over to crash onto his mattress on the floor. He never made his bed because, obviously, it was what the conformists did. He pulled some of the dark colored pillows closer and wrapped his arms around them, taking in a deep breath. School was finally over for the day and he was free to do what he pleased. The relief was overwhelming.

Georgie rolled over to his side still clinging to a pillow. He breathed in the smell of incense still lingering on the fabric of the soft, downy cushion. Although he was only lying down for about a minute, he felt his eyelids become heavier and he yawned with his mouth wide open. It was time for coffee. Without missing a beat, the goth pushed himself off of the mattress and scrambled over the side so that his feet touched the concrete floor. He pulled himself up and bounded up the stairs back into the kitchen. Once there, he measured out coffee grounds, put them into his family's coffee machine and turned the appliance on. He leaned back against the counter top and drummed his fingers against the edge in thoughtful gesture. He ran through his head possible activities for him to do while he was at home. He could watch reruns on the television, write some more poetry, read the rest of his H.P. Lovecraft novel or "Poems by Poe," use the computer in the upstairs office, throw a snack together...

The gurgling noises that the coffee maker made distracted his thinking. He shook his head, hair flying around wildly, and surveyed the area of his kitchen. Again, average and not much to look at. The refrigerator in the corner of the room started making ringing noises and Georgie glanced over to it for a split second before setting his eyes on the phone on the side of the wall. He could always call his friends and see what they were up to. He walked over, ignoring how slippery the tiles of the floor were under his socks, and picked up the cordless phone from the wall piece. He dialed Henrietta's cell phone number first, and heard a bad recording of a Skinny Puppies song play as he waited for her to pick up. When no one answered, he tried Dylan's cell. The "red goth" picked up after three rings and answered in an aggravated voice, "Yeah?"

"Dylan, it's Georgie." he mumbled, turning around to face the coffee maker. "You doing anything?"

"Nah, not really." he seemed uninterested, "I was asleep, actually. Thanks for waking me. Not."

"You're _welcome_." Georgie replied sarcastically, keeping an eye on the coffee. "Drink more coffee, it's bad for you." he walked back to the machine on the counter and hovered above it with the phone. "What are you doing later?"

"Dunno. Henri wanted to go to the graveyard sometime tonight..." he coughed. "I think."

Georgie's coffee was just about ready. Dylan could probably hear the hunk of plastic gurgling as the hot liquid poured into the glass container. "I don't have anything of interest to do. I'm bored. My fucking parents are still at work."

"You could entertain yourself for once."

"Meh..." the small goth held the phone to his ear with his shoulder and retrieved the filled jug of hot coffee from the machine. He carefully tilted the container into a ceramic mug. "I'm going for a walk then. Don't be surprised if I show up at your door step." he blew at the surface of the dark liquid and took a sip. It was entirely bitter, which he enjoyed over drinking it with milk and sweetener.

There was some shifting around happening on the other end of the line. Dylan mumbled, "I'm not at my house. Evan and I skipped our afternoon classes and hung out at his house today." he coughed once more. "I drank too much and crashed on his bed."

Georgie almost spat out his coffee. "Without me?" he set the mug down against the counter top with a loud clunk. He quickly jumped up on the counter to sit on its surface, hunching over so that he wouldn't bump the cabinets.

"Yeah, dude. I'm sorry neither one of us called." the teenager coughed. Georgie gritted his teeth and waited for Dylan to continue. "You're too young for that kind of thing anyways."

Like he hadn't forgotten. Georgie sighed. "Fuck you. I don't care about the getting wasted thing. I'm pissed because you never ask me to do anything with you guys anymore."

"Look, man, I said I was sorry. We can't reach you if you don't have a cell phone."

"Fuck you." he growled into the phone. "Damn it, you could have just picked me up. I was stuck at school all day with all of those whiny little Justin Biebers and Nazi cheerleaders! Some assholes made it their pleasure to make fun of me! Gym was miserable!" he yelled. He reached for his mug of coffee and took a swig of it before slamming it back down. "I just want to be able to hang out with you guys."

Dylan took a moment to reply. Throughout the small goth's rant, it seemed as though he had lit a cigarette for himself and was now taking in a drag. Georgie heard a puff before the other said, "Just relax, dude, I've got a headache. If you really want, just come over to his house and chill with us. Okay? I've gotta go."

Georgie sighed and pulled his bangs back behind his ear. It had become an undesirable habit now. "I would like that..." he took a smaller sip of the coffee. "Fine. Alright. I'm coming over."

"Okay."

"Oh, yeah, and Dylan?" he asked.

"What?"

"Don't forget to put your pants back on." It was obviously just a joke but the older goth seemed to take it seriously. Georgie heard a beep on the phone that meant the line was disconnected. He smiled to himself and snickered. He pulled the mug back up to his lips and jumped onto the floor from the counter. With another gulp, the drink was gone and he placed the mug into the sink. He walked back towards the basement staircase and returned to the crypt that was his room. At the bottom of the stairs, he quickly grabbed his keys and his jacket from the railing and went back up into the kitchen for more coffee. He grabbed a plastic thermos from the cabinet and filled it with what was left of the coffee that he had just brewed. He couldn't help but take a sip of it before closing it with the lid. He crossed the living room and entered the downstairs bathroom. The bathroom was clean and shiny, much to his disdain, and he groomed himself in the mirror. His hair was a bit out of order so he ran his fingers through it to even it out. His eyeliner and lipstick were definitely not as defined as this morning and he dug through one of the drawers for his make-up. He reapplied each before slamming the door shut behind him and making his way towards the front door. He slipped his feet back into his shoes by the door and finally stepped back out into the outside world.

666

The last dozen cars finally exited the South Park Middle School parking lot. After waiting for about half an hour, Ike was definitely relieved when his older brother showed up in their dad's old silver hybrid car. He pulled the car up into one of the parking slots and Ike filed inside the passenger seat, throwing his backpack down by his shoes and buckling his seat belt. His older brother looked to him and smiled. Kyle definitely looked like their parents. His nose was considerably triangular like their mom's and his facial features were much like their dad's. He was their biological son, so it only made sense. His curly red hair was tucked under the same style of green hat that he had worn since elementary school. "Hey." he said, turning down the radio that was blasting music from one of the few stations in town. "How was school, dude?"

"Hi." Ike adjusted his seat belt. His brother reached for the shift and pulled the car into reverse. "It was okay." he said. School was always only okay. It was never good, or great, or even bad. School was never any different and Kyle should have known that by now. Even if his 8th grade year had just barely started, he doubted it would change much throughout the year.

"Are you liking your classes this year?" Kyle asked. He turned the steering wheel around a sharp turn and drove closer to the exit.

"They're okay. The teachers are the same. The material is easy. The only class I hate is gym." Ike stared out the window at a group of 6th graders walking home.

"Oh, but..." Kyle turned onto the road that went down Main Street, "you used to love gym. Especially hockey, am I right?"

"I got sick of it. Everyone thinks that every Canadian loves hockey. They all just assumed that I liked it since I was good at it, but..." he looked back towards his brother. "I think I just hate playing sports in general."

His brother nodded, listening intently as he kept his eyes on the road. "Yeah, I see what you mean. That Cartman guy still rags on me for being a Jew. That fat asshole. We can totally play sports." Kyle was talking now as though he were steamed. He sighed and halted to a stop sign. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Just rambling." The coast was clear and he pressed his shoe against the gas pedal to get the car moving again.

"Oh, well, how was your day, dude?"

"It was alright. I didn't expect junior year to be this easy. Especially my AP chemistry class. Other than that, well, same as usual." Kyle replied. They were about four blocks away from their house. He had decided to make more small talk with his younger brother. "So, tell me." he tightened his grip on the wheel. "Did you take your counselor's advice? You know, what she said about opening up more and talking to others?" he asked as he shifted around some more in his seat.

"I didn't tell you about that." Ike pulled his leg against his chest, avoiding getting dirt from the soles of his shoe on the seat.

"Mom told me about it. You going to tell me or what?"

Ike sighed and turned his head to look out the window. "Well, I kind of did. Besides the teachers, this freaky emo kid in my class started talking to me. In English class. And then in Gym. It was weird and I wasn't sure how to respond."

"Better than nothing, I guess." Kyle mumbled. His brother lacked conversational skills with people he wasn't familiar with, and though they were talking now, he was positive that Ike hadn't actually said much at all to this other person. "Do you know him?"

"Yeah, a bit. I mean, we've been in the same grade for ages, I just never got to get to know him. I even forgot his name." Ike was twisting the fabric of his Canadian flag shirt. It looked as though he had forgotten his sweatshirt, but Kyle didn't bring it up.

"Well, that just makes talking to them more awkward, dude."

"Yeah, yeah... I know. Anyways, he hangs out with the goth kids in your grade, I think."

"You mean that group of depressed teenagers that used to hang out behind the school all the time and smoke? Then, wait, if he's in your grade then..." Kyle did the equations in his head. He turned on the turn signal and changed lanes to turn onto a different street. "We used to refer to him as Kindergoth. I think he's the Martins' kid. Crap... I forgot his name."

"Oh well, don't strain yourself."

"Yeah... I hate those goth kids. They do nothing but whine about their lives being worse than the rest of ours like they're more important. Just, I mean, damn, this was a long time ago but at one point they had converted Stan into joining their little clique."

"I vaguely remember something like that happening."

"Just don't turn into them, okay? I don't think they realize just how great life can be."

_Yeah,_ Ike thought, _Life is certainly great alright._

666

After walking the couple of blocks that it took to get to Evan's house, Georgie found himself staring at the home and swishing his hair around to a beat as he finished up the last few seconds of a Tones on Tail song. He took the time to analyze Evan's living facility. The older goth's house was no different than the one to its left, or the one on the right, or any other house on the street for that matter. All of these damn houses in South Park looked identical besides maybe their color. They all conformed to the same "ideal home" image. He pressed the off button on his CD player and proceeded to walk up the stairs of the front porch, where he kicked the door with his shoe for whoever inside to take notice of his presence. There were muffled voices coming from Evan's living room and it sounded as though his television was on. He waited a moment before leaning forward and resting his forehead against the wooden door.

"I'm telling you, dude, Peter Murphy gave the best performances out of any singer." It was Evan's voice and he was approaching his front door. He didn't actually open it, however. Georgie heard another person yelling and it was undeniably Dylan's nasally voice, which said, "No way. Faris Badwan creates riots and yells at stage assistants." The small goth chuckled to himself at their debate and opened the door for himself, almost knocking the much taller goth behind it over. "Hey." he greeted the curly haired teenager and disrupted their conversation. The addition of a third member to the room changed the atmosphere.

"Hey, Georgia." Evan ruffled the younger boy's hair in a brotherly fashion and walked back over to join Dylan on the couch. Though Georgie showed agitation on the surface in response to the name, he eased up from the touch to his hair. He pretended to pout and fixed his hair, pulling it behind his ear.

Dylan moved over on the couch to make room. Evan sat on the opposite end and shouted over his shoulder, "We're watching a horror movie, dude. Come sit." he waved his hand in gesture towards the old couch they shared. Georgie pulled out the cords in his ears and removed his trench coat before tossing it to the side with his shoes and walking over. He fell backwards onto the middle cushion and sunk into the cushions as if they were trying to swallow him. He propped himself up so that his back was mildly hunched over. Beside him sat Dylan, who took sips out of a beer can and set the cold drink on his pant leg. Good. He had remembered to put them back on. Georgie chuckled to himself. The red haired goth took notice and saw that he was looking at his black pants. He coughed in a manner that caught the younger boy's attention and he looked up. "You remembered your pants." Georgie pointed.

"What about pants?" Evan asked.

"Oh, nothing. Just Georgie being some kind of perv." Dylan quickly answered. He shoved the boy with the back of his hand. "Knock it off, you sick little tween."

"Just watch the damn movie. That blond preppy chick is about to be torn apart." Evan ordered as he turned the volume up with the TV's remote. There was loud screaming coming from the glowing box and the two older teenagers watched the screen small boy sitting in the middle couldn't pay attention to the graphic violence behind the screaming and instead let his eyes wander around the room. It was practically trashed from whatever Dylan and Evan had done earlier. Beer cans and cigarette butts littered the floor, furniture seemed out of place, and framed pictures were left uneven on their walls. It looked as though there were way more people in there earlier than just the two teens. Georgie kicked one of the aluminum cans with a shoe and it rolled to a stop several feet away. He turned to Evan and pointed towards the abused can. "Did you seriously drink all of those?"

Evan toyed with the buttons on his unbuttoned shirt unconsciously, still staring at the screen as some poor girl was ripped to shreds. Georgie wondered for what reason his shirt would be undone but ignored the thought and flicked at the taller boy's forehead to get his attention. "Hey, ass-munch!"

The taller goth shook his head. "Yeah, but we didn't actually plan on it, junior."

"I'm not a fucking child anymore." Georgie sighed and pulled his legs to his chest. His bangs moved back into his line of vision and he blew them away, muttering, "whatever."

They watched the movie in silence for a while. It seemed to be nearing its end. The manic serial killer was caught and put in jail or something like that, but whatever happened, Georgie wasn't paying too much attention to it. "This is about the most conformist plot ever." Dylan complained. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his plastic lighter. "And so is this scenario." he flicked the lighter's tab and it sparked.

"Teenagers sitting on a couch watching a movie, you mean?" Evan asked. He turned away from the movie to watch the lighter make attempts at creating fire.

"Yeah." Dylan sipped his beer and set the can on the ground. His thumb stopped flicking the tab and he slumped backwards. "We should go somewhere instead of sitting on our asses. I'm calling Henrietta."

Evan nodded, "You do that." Dylan dug through his back pants pocket, pulling out his scratched up black cellphone. He flipped it open and started to press some buttons. The weight on the couch shifted as Evan got up and stretched. He turned the television off and motioned Georgie to follow him as he walked into his kitchen. The boy leaned forward and pushed himself off of the sofa, trailing behind Evan and leaving the red haired goth to flip his hair and wait for their friend to pick up. While Dylan sat in the living room talking on the phone, the other two rummaged around Evan's pantry in search of food. There didn't seem to be much of anything left to eat in the house but they were able to find a bag of potato chips. The older goth brewed coffee and they each grabbed handfuls of the greasy chips while they waited. Out of habit, Georgie avoided letting the oils touch his lips in fear of it messing up his lipstick. Evan smirked, wanting to laugh but knowing it may lead to an injury. He glanced up to the doorway and after a few moments, their friend joined them and leaned against the kitchen table under the fluorescent lights.

"Dude," Dylan jerked his neck to get his red hair out of his face, "we need to go pick her up. Her mom's apparently being a major bitch and she can't leave." He looked between them. Evan had just stuffed his mouth with the greasy snack and wiped his fingers against the curtains.

"Alright," he replied with a cheek full of food, "find the car keys, I'm making coffee." He gestured towards the Mr. Coffee on the counter that was now gurgling. The scent of coffee beans spread through the room and the promise of caffeine rejuvenated the red haired goth. He quickly left and returned about a minute later with a key ring and his jacket draped around his shoulders. He dropped the keys onto the counter beside the appliance and crossed his arms. "I'm ready when you guys are."

"You can sit out in my dad's car if you want." Evan waved his hand and tapped his foot impatiently as if it would make the coffee move along.

Dylan sighed, needing coffee himself. He picked the keys up once again and carried them outside. Georgie followed him out into the living room to gather his things. The room was still a wreck but to his knowledge, Evan's mom was away on a business trip. Whether there was garbage everywhere or not was of no concern to him or his older friend. He shook his trench coat into place on his small body and slid his feet into his shoes. He met Dylan outside and asked for a cigarette. Dylan obliged and handed him one, taking one out for himself and sticking it in between his teeth. "Need a light?" he offered his plastic lighter. The younger goth took it and brought the flame to the end of the paper stick. He inhaled the smoke and released it from his nostrils, staring at the mountains in the distance as the sun set behind them. It was peaceful, really. Cold, but peaceful. He exchanged glances with Dylan, whose eye twitched from the lack of caffeine. Fortunately for him, Evan opened his front door behind them, trying to balance the three mugs filled with their precious warm liquids. He offered a mug to each of them and took a sip of his own while pulling the door shut. "Thanks." they mumbled, hastily bringing the drink to their lips.

"Did you start the car yet?" Evan wrinkled his nose. Dylan shook his head and handed him the set of keys. The curly haired goth snatched them up and walked over to the driver's side of the warn down minivan. The car beeped and its lights flashed on. Georgie crushed his fag with the sole of his shoes and got into the back seat with Dylan following him to the passenger side. Inside the vehicle, country music played loudly and Evan scoffed, ejecting one of his father's CDs and tossing it elsewhere. After sitting down, he reached over Dylan to get into the compartment on the dash board for his mp3 player. He connected the small plastic device to a cord and his own music played. It was set to one of The Cure's albums and the goths exchanged pleased smiles before finally backing out of the driveway and onto the street.

**A/N: I've got hand cramps. Your reviews help ease the pain.**

**For some reason I found it hard to write for the goths this time. Forgive me if they don't seem in character, I was just wondering if anyone else got that OOC vibe. I thought that Georgie, being the hardcore goth that he is, would be threatening his friends with a knife for a beer. But no. His lack of alcohol consumption is all part of the plot. Where is the plot anyways? Oh, it actually gets going in the next chapter. I'm excited to write it~**  
**  
And for anyone who would like to know, and are not familiar with goth music, Peter Murphy is the singer of the band Bauhaus. Faris Badwan is the singer of the band The Horrors. Both are equally entertaining to watch on stage. For me, though, Badwan is the Jesus of modern day goth culture. He is the British Tweek Tweak. Just listen to some of their songs up on youtube. Or better yet, watch their live performances.**

**Well, there was my ramble. Thank you for reading. Have a nice day.**


	4. Ike's House

**A/N: Warning! Actual plot ahead! (Also, long chapter is long.) This is only the first part of this chapter. I figured both parts put together was much too long/boring for you readers. Plus, you know, there was a very long and unintentional hiatus between updates so I think I owe you guys this much. I am a thoughtful human being.**

Reviews are precious. Serve me my precious to fuel my motivation. Seriously, my motivation has just depleted the past few weeks. Anyways, hopefully you're all better people than me and will spare some feedback.

666

It was raining after school the next day, typical for that time of year in South Park. With a few days of freedom ahead of him, Georgie walked out of the school building, umbrella over head and frown spread across his painted lips. The weekend usually meant that he'd be at home because his mother was most likely not going to let him leave and hang out with his friends. He would be expected to spend time with his family or something. On Sunday they would attend church just like the other conformist families in the town and he'd be forced to wear nice, much less dark clothing. The thought made him want to lash out right then and there on the street while the other kids leaving in the same direction pointed and gawked. Instead, he pressed his teeth together in a grind and imagined them shattering into tiny little bits of tooth sand. All he wanted at the moment was to listen to something angry, something he could relate to but, of course, the batteries of his CD player were dead. On weekends, Georgie wanted to be like the batteries that powered his source of music. Lifeless. He had thought of possible methods for sneaking out of the house before, of course, but the only way he could think of that didn't involve leaving his room could only work if the snow wasn't there to expose his footprints. The palm of his hand poked out from underneath the black fabric of his umbrella to touch the falling water droplets. If the rain continued long enough it would integrate into the snow and form the kind of slushy puddles in the backyard that he could climb out of his window and run through without leaving a trace. His head felt as if it were stirring, dizzy and heavy, as he looked upwards at the grey skies above. It was time for a smoke.

"Hey, kid!" a voice yelled from behind him. His free hand had crept into the side pocket of his trench coat, grasping at his Marlboro carton, wanting to pull it out and light a cigarette. He didn't, however, and simply turned to see if it was somebody talking to him or not. He pulled his black hair back to see with both eyes and saw a shiny hybrid car pulling up beside him. He stopped for a second but, fearing that it might be just some jerk wanting to call him an "emo queer" or something unoriginal like that, he turned his head away and proceeded to walk forward. The sound of the rain beating against the hood of the car beside him made ringing noises in his head and this time he couldn't drown the sound of the water with his music. The driver pounded against the metal door with his palm, still calling out, "hey!"

Georgie stopped walking and turned to face the car. He twirled the handle of the umbrella that he held and analyzed the person pestering him. It was a teenager, wearing a green hat. Something about him was familiar and he assumed that it was because he looked about his friends' age; therefore, he was in their grade as well. The driver sat back in his seat and something compelled the young goth to move closer to investigate. He leaned forward to get a better look and noticed that the Canadian boy in his class was sitting in the passenger's seat. Ike Broflovski? He grumbled, straightening his back and staring down the driver. It was probably Ike's older brother sitting behind the wheel. "What?" Georgie shook water from his umbrella.

"You heading down this direction?" the teenager asked. What a stupid question. Of course, if he was _walking_ this way he would be heading down this direction. After a moment of wondering about the question at hand, Georgie nodded.

"Need a ride?" the older teenager asked. For a second, the boy rubbed the skin under his eye to make sure his purple eye shadow wasn't running down his cheek with the water that wasn't hitting his face. He looked away, down the road, and shrugged. The other boy in the passenger seat was groaning something, whining, and facing outside of the opposite window. His arms were folded and he wore the light blue colored jacket that he was wearing earlier that day and the day before. He seemed tortured as though his brother was doing something horrible to him like stabbing him with an invisible knife. Why not torture the poor soul even more? Without his music, the goth was doomed for boredom the long way home anyways. Georgie nodded once again and said, "I guess."

The older Broflovski motioned toward the backseat with his thumb and the goth yanked the door open, putting one foot in, shaking the umbrella closed, and finally slumped into the middle seat. The door was slammed closed behind him as he breathed in the warm air blasting from the heater. He faced the driver and mumbled, "Um, thanks?" The older boy looked behind him for a brief moment, staring out the back window and not looking at Georgie, before deeming it safe to turn back onto the road. Georgie shifted a bit to keep his balance before realizing that he'd forgotten to put on his seat belt. Not that he cared much. His gaze drifted between each tiny object in the squeaky clean car; from a magazine in the back pocket of one of the seats, to a plastic fast food cup in the cup holder, to the tacky evergreen tree-shaped air freshener dangling from the mirror, and after leaning forward more, settled on Ike. The other 8th grader had his arms folded under the baggy sleeves of his blue hoodie. His lip jutted out in a pout, like he was trying to avoid speaking.

"No problem. It was Ike's idea. I'm his brother, Kyle." the driver finally answered the goth's meek attempt at showing gratitude.

"I know. I remember you." Georgie said immediately. He muttered, "aren't you the 11th grader who despises anything dark and non-conforming?"

"Yes, well..." _what a pleasant child_, "Um, where do you live?"

"Hansen Road." The goth replied, watching the windshield wipers plowing small pools of water out of the way.

"That's a few blocks past us." Kyle drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. They were driving through the main road, passing the pharmacy and Tom's Rhinoplasty that had surprisingly stayed in business over the past few years.

Georgie grunted in response. He looked out the window at the business establishments for a few moments before leaning back in his seat. The car had become too warm for him and he peeled his trench coat off, setting it aside and his school bag in his lap. On his lips grew a shy smile. "So, um... _Ike_," he elongated the first letter of the others name, "this was your idea? How kind of you." There was involuntary sarcasm in his voice that made Ike flinch. Georgie hadn't meant for his words to sound hostile but he waited for the boy to start talking anyway.

"It was his idea." Ike blurted out. He gripped the fabric of his hood tighter around his head, pulling it down. "He wants me to be some sort of social butterfly." His tone threw daggers at his brother, who looked at him with wide eyes.

"Oh, well..." the goth stared at his painted fingernails. "A social arachnid wouldn't be as enjoyable. Anyways, thank you, whichever one of you decided to pick up a stray rat from the streets. My descent into madness won't be as slow and painful now." He meant it as a joke but noticed the way Kyle reacted, he had brought a nail to his teeth and chewed off a corner before placing his hand back down on the wheel and tightening his grip. Some people didn't understand a goth's sense of humor and Georgie shrugged it off, fixing his eyes on the road before them. The car made a left, bringing forth a lingering silence to the confined space. Georgie rested his elbow on his knee and held his head in the palm of his hand. The rain beat down hard against the metal roof just like it was supposed to. Rain conformed to the laws of gravity, just like everything else.

"The weather is weird." the Canadian boy huffed. The other two stared at him as though he'd said his first word. "No, really, it was nice yesterday but today it's just crappy." He released his hold on his hood and let his hands fall in his lap. A wet maple leaf hit the windshield and was quickly carried away by the plastic wipers. The large drops of rain had become smaller, less frequent dots.

"I like the rain." Georgie objected. He blew a strand of hair out of his face. "But I like the snow more."

"Me too." Ike said, slightly bothered by the blow of air in his direction.

"Il neige ici beaucoup." The goth pulled his hair back.

"Is that more French?" Ike turned his head to face the back seat. The other boy nodded and his black bangs fell back into his face with ease. "What did you say?"

"I said it snows here a lot. I'm not that good with elaborate sentences." Georgie replied, flipping his hair away much like the way his older friend had always done.

"How do you know French?" the teenage driver suddenly asked. They had stopped at a stop sign where a mother and her two young girls crossed the street. The girls wore matching pink rain boots and splashed in puddles with carefree giggles. The mother, as well as the young goth in the car, was not amused.

"From my parents." the boy informed. "They lived in France at one point but moved to this shit hole."

"That's kind of cool..." Ike scratched at his neck, leaving long pink streaks behind on his skin. The car lunged forward again and made its way through the more suburban part of the town, past house after house. By the time they were on the Brofslovskis' street, the rain had died down and was nothing more than a little early autumn sprinkle. Kyle had stopped the hybrid in front of a dark green two-floored house. The snow in the front yard had become a thick layer of slush. A group of sparrows bickered in the bushes surrounding the house's perimeter and a few had taken to bathing themselves in small puddles. Beside the short pathway to the front door was a driveway with a mid sized van resting in it.

Kyle turned around in his seat, one arm still holding onto the wheel as he spoke. "Sorry, um, Kindergoth." he didn't seem sure of what to call the young boy sitting in the backseat. "I don't think I have time to drive any farther than here. My shift at work begins in, like, four minutes. Can you manage walking the rest of the way?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." the boy's darkened eyes grew thin in a glare and he got out quickly enough to drag his messenger bag out and slam the car door behind him within ten seconds. He didn't notice Ike's eyes following him before the other boy turned to his older brother and frowned. Kyle's expression asked what his deal was and the Canadian shrugged, climbing out with his own backpack and closing the door behind him. He stepped back onto the concrete sidewalk before suddenly turning and tapping on the window. His brother held down a button that controlled the level of the window. Ike leaned forward and stuck his head back inside. Georgie tapped the soles of his worn shoes on the concrete sidewalk and crossed his arms. He raised an eyebrow and tried to hear what the two were conversing about but couldn't over the sound of the obnoxious windshield wipers that continued to go up and down, up and down.

"You don't have work today. What are you doing?" Even though Ike whispered the question, it came out more whiny than he intended.

"Helping you be more of a 'social butterfly.' I dunno, dude, hang out with the kid or something. I have to go pick something up for Dad." Kyle started rolling up the glass window.

"Wait!" Ike said frantically. He glared at the teenager and said through the remaining space between the passenger window and the rim of the car door, "you're a jerk, you know that?"

Kyle grinned and sent his own little glare towards his little brother. "Play nice, okay?" His tone was completely sarcastic and brotherly like it had always been when they talked. Ike rolled his eyes and stepped back once again to watch the car turn back onto the street. He adjusted the weight on his shoulder from the bag that dangled from it and turned to face Georgie standing a few feet away, rubbing his hands against his sleeved arms. His teeth bit into the bottom of his dark violet lip. One of his hands rose up and flipped off the silver vehicle driving away.

"H-he called me Kindergoth. He still calls me Kindergoth." he muttered, bringing the defeated hand back down to his side. The words were more to himself than to Ike. He grumbled, louder this time, "Shit, I left my jacket in the back seat!"

"U-um... he'll be back soon." Ike mumbled. He watched as the smaller boy strained his neck and bit harder into his bottom lip. Purple residue stuck to his front teeth. He pulled his hair back and began digging through the bag at his hip. "We could, uh... go inside and wait or something?"

"No!" the goth shouted and threw crumbled paper after paper on the ground to be consumed by the watered down snow. He sighed loudly, suddenly coughing, and groaned, "my smokes, dude. I haven't had one since lunch and my pack is in my coat. I _need _one." His fingers dug around at the bottom of the bag underneath his notebooks. Without his jacket, Ike observed, the boy's arms were thin and the black fabric of his shirt clung to each one. The cloth was thin itself and didn't seem to be keeping the goth warm. Just looking at him made Ike shiver under his own hoodie.

A moment of panic later and the goth pulled a thin white cylinder out. One end was an orange color and flakes of some dried plant fell out of the other. It was, obviously, a cigarette. The boy fumbled around, pulling out a plastic lighter from his back pocket, dropping it and cursing before he was actually able to pick it up and light the white end of the stick. Ike stared at the tiny flame that made the cigarette burn. Georgie sucked in the smoke and a second later, a euphoric expression graced his face. The Canadian had expected the other to choke and cough up a lung after he had taken the first long drag from the paper stick but he had instead gracefully released smoke from puckered lips as if it were habitual. But of course it was habitual. Needing a cigarette only implied that he was, in fact, a smoker. The pungent smell of the smoke filled Ike's nostrils and gave him a gag reflex.

"Can you be careful with that?" Ike waved the grey stream away from his face. "I think my mom might be able to see you from the window." Ike pointed towards the window beside the door of his house where the blinds were shut. He held his sleeve up to his face and squinted at the goth. Smoke from the end of the paper and the boy's mouth floated into the cold air that stung his face. It felt as though all of the information that Ike knew about the effects of cigarette smoke poured into him, making him want to swat the "cancer stick" away for the sake of both of their health. Georgie shooed him away with a gloved hand and turned so that his back was to the house and his face wasn't visible. Ike nervously looked back at the window and saw one of the plastic blinds move slightly as though someone were looking through them. His head returned to face the goth boy whose hands covered the burning cigarette. "Please?"

"What do you want me to do, put it out?" Georgie snapped back, cigarette bobbing between his dark lips.

Ike confirmed by nodding his head, "yes."

"Buzzkill," the goth rolled his eyes and spat the fag out and onto the ground, kicking it clear across the street after a moment of remorsefully staring at it on the wet concrete. The paper stick rolled into a puddle and the flame was dowsed. Georgie's shoulders tensed under the weight of his bag and he faced Ike, pointing a finger at his chest. "I can't leave until I get my jacket back." the finger that pointed at the others chest jabbed at him and Georgie's eyes stared him down. There was a tiny pimple forming on Ike's cheek.

"Is it important?"

"Well, it's not for sentimental reasons or anything." he replied with nasally sarcasm. "I left my cigarettes in my pocket, like I said."

Ike, either replying with a quiet "okay" or standing there with nothing to say, turned towards the street his brother had driven down. The rain that had become a drizzle had picked up again and little water drops splashed against the puddles on the street. He contemplated why they were still standing outside when both of them showed disdain towards rain of any kind. Reason # 1 was because they had reached another awkward situation, reason # 2 was that Georgie was practically dumped on him and he wasn't sure what to do, and reason # 3, the least likely of the three, was that the goth was secretly not a goth but a douchey vampire kid instead and needed to be invited inside before he could actually enter the house. And Ike was 96% sure that they were going to end up hanging out at his house anyway thanks to his "helpful" brother.

Before the Canadian could think of ways to rag on Kyle when he got home, the shorter boy coughed and caught his attention. "You got any coffee?"

"Um... yeah, I think so."

And before any objections could be made, Georgie was making his way up the driveway to the front door. Ike watched him with uncertainty but, seeing as though his mother inside would be terrified by anyone like Georgie walking inside their door unescorted, trotted up beside him and grabbed his keys from his front pants pocket.


	5. Ike's House, pt 2

**A/N: Long chapter is long. Here is the second half of chapter 4~**

This chapter was revised so many times. It was like trying to put together a puzzle but all of the pieces kept changing their shape and nothing fit. In the end, though, I think it turned out the way I wanted it to in my head. Now that it's over, I can finally reply to my messages xD

Anyways, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing. Reviews are the motivational fuels behind the operation.  
  
666

"T-this is my room." Ike stuttered, holding the golden doorknob in his sweaty hand. Beside him, the goth boy held a mug filled with the bitter liquid he had grown so accustomed to. It wasn't the brand that his own family bought, for it was mildly sweeter even without sugar and cream, but he shrugged it off. Coffee was coffee and he drank it with no less of a satisfied crooked smile than he normally would. Ike, being the conformist that he was as Georgie would have put it, hadn't made any for himself and stood at the foot of the stairs grasping the doorknob with one hand and a sourdough sandwich in the other.

They had just ascended the stairs from the living room after spending a few minutes brewing coffee in the kitchen. The Jewish-Canadian's household was no different than any other house in their town, with a living area that was incorporated into the dining room and a moderately sized TV in front of a large couch. Georgie had taken the chance to snicker at the many framed pictures along the stair wall of Ike and his older brother in front of places like a circus and what appeared to be Stark's pond. He was surprised, however, by the lack of parents that were present when it was clear that at least one of them was home. There was a car parked in the driveway and Ike _had_ mentioned something about his mom while they were outside. Perhaps they were in a different room, an office maybe. The goth took another sip of his coffee and pulled his dangling black bangs behind his ear. "I'm not a freaking critic, dude," he said, "I'm not going to rant about how hideous your room -"

Ike finally opened his door and walked inside. The first thing that Georgie noticed was that while the rest of the house had bright blue wallpaper and green carpets, which was an odd combination of colors in his opinion, Ike's room had light grey walls and cadet blue carpeting with a large oval-shaped rug at its center. From the doorway, Georgie saw a window that faced the front yard. Ike's bed was right below the window with a sufficient amount of space on either side of it. There were several shelves, all white and matching the color of the bed frame, that housed multiple volumes of books; novels, text books, dictionaries, and, the boy had to squint from the lack of glasses, comic books? His legs moved closer involuntarily and he was able to confirm the contents of the shelves. There were, indeed, comic books. It was then that Georgie noticed that on the wall parallel to the bed and shelves were posters of a superhero that everyone could identify, Spiderman.

The owner of the room sat at his desk chair observing every facial expression that the other boy made as he surveyed the room. After taking a bite of his sandwich, he set it down on a clear spot on his desk and retrieved his arms from the sleeves of his hoodie to pull the jacket over his head. Once he was free of the baby blue fabric, he noticed Georgie pointing with his mouth opened slightly at the poster above the desk that he sat at. "What?" Ike asked.

"Spiderman?" Georgie gawked. "Seriously?"

"Uh, yeah... Um, ignore those posters. They're old." Ike tossed the hoodie he had just taken off onto the bundle of blankets that was on his bed.

"That doesn't necessarily mean you don't still like him. I mean, seriously," he reiterated, "wasn't Spiderman every kid's role model when they were young?"

"I suppose." Ike replied. The goth had taken another sip from his mug and continued to stare at the poster. The picture was from the third or second movie, Georgie couldn't remember since he had refused to watch either, and showed the superhero in a dramatic about-to-shoot-spider-webs-

from-his-wrist pose. Ike scratched the back of his neck and leaned forward in his chair. "Why?" he asked, "Did you like him?"

"Me?" Georgie pressed his fingers against his chest with his free hand. "Yeah, like a nonconformist like me would ever like one of those well known superheroes." He rolled his eyes once before looking down at the Canadian in his desk chair. He noticed, suddenly, that the hoodie was gone and the boy wore a bright blue and violet plaid shirt. He wanted to say that plaid shirts were for teenagers who dressed according to what everyone else wore but stopped himself. Ike didn't seem like the type to just go with the flow like everybody else. He probably picked that shirt for its color and nothing else. The goth finished up the last of the drink he held and turned to face the bookshelf. He set his mug down on Ike's desk and walked over to look as the Canadian analyzed him. He felt like he was being studied by an analytical scientist who was examining him like a cell under a microscope. He shoved the image of this out of his head to read over the titles of some of the thicker comic books. X-men, Spiderman, Fantastic Four... Georgie browsed through each collection and sighed. "I hate DC comics."

Ike was stuffing his face with the last half of his sandwich. "Those are Marvel, actually."

"Same thing." Georgie coughed. "What I really like, though," he shook his bangs out of his face since they seemed to have fallen back into place, "are alternative comics. You know, like," he waved his hand around and tried to think of an example, "like Lenore. Have you heard of Lenore?"

"I dunno. What's it about?" Ike wiped a few crumbs off of his face and spun idly in the chair.

"Lenore. 'The cute little dead girl.' My friend Henrietta showed it to me." he replied. "I think it's by some guy named Roman Dirge. They're comics about this girl that I think might be dead but it's really hard to tell since every character that that Dirge guy draws looks dead. I'm sure you've seen her on the internet," he gestured to the laptop that was on Ike's desk, "and didn't even realize it."

Ike stared blankly at him as if he were still processing all of the information he was just given. An imaginary light bulb shattered above his head. "Um... I don't think I've seen her. I-I can't remember."

"You don't know of Lenore then?" Georgie's expression grew a bit more darkened, if that was at all possible. "Well, every modern day goth knows of her. I don't think you fit under that category."

"I don't?" Ike's head tilted a bit and he pushed himself in the chair with one of his feet. Obviously he wasn't goth. "Well, um..."

"You can't be goth if you don't smoke or drink coffee." Georgie stated. It was in the Gothic rulebook.

There was a pause in their conversation. The Canadian wasn't sure how to respond, other than with a "hmm," and had taken to spinning himself around and around in the chair, hugging the leg that wasn't pushing him in circles to his chest. He stared down at the floor and didn't look up even when he asked, "aren't there any other qualifications besides those?"

Georgie had started browsing through the novels on the second shelf. He mused, "well, I guess there can be. You have to listen to the right kind of music. But if you don't do things that are bad for you, like smoke and drink coffee, then you're definitely not goth. Those kinds of people are the preppy A+ students who discover a Hot Topic in their mall one day. They may look goth, listen to the same music just because they think it's cool, but I assure you that_ they are not goth_." The last few sentences were packed full of a built up loathing emotion. Georgie took in a deep breath and the air tickled the back of his throat. He was suddenly wanting to throw something, preferably something that could be completely destroyed. He longed for the rest of the cigarette that Ike had made him put out.

"Uh... are you alright?" Ike had taken to resting his arms on his knee with his chin resting on top. Georgie was seething. He was a miniature dragon spitting fire and Ike felt like one of the townspeople standing in the middle of his path. The goth pinched the skin between his eyebrows, which Ike noticed were thin, black lines with little to no imperfections. He sighed and took a seat at the foot of the bed, mumbling something along the lines of "yeah, I'm fine." This little 13-year-old was certainly opinionated as far as Ike could tell.

"So," Georgie looked up from where he sat on the bed, "what kind of music _do_ you listen to?" He asked this as though any answer he might receive would be obscure and outlandish to him. Anything that was overplayed on the radio was his first guess, considering that everyone he asked answered with someone well known because their songs were overly broadcasted. "Wait, let me guess. You like that Justin Beiber guy, don't you? He's Canadian, too."

"He is? I didn't know that, actually." Ike pushed himself in a full circle in the chair. "But no, I would hate him either way, even if he was from Canada..." he continued. He put a finger to his chin in a thoughtful fashion and twirled some more. "What music do I listen to?" Ike lifted his head from the skin of his arm. He had repeated the question unconsciously and it irked even himself. No one had ever asked that question to him before. It was kind of like, because he was so quiet at school, no one really cared what he listened to. Everyone just assumed that he listened to Celine Dion, or some other Canadian artist like that. Justin Beiber, in this case. He wasn't even sure if it was possible for any male in the right mind to listen to Justin Beiber. Ike found that he couldn't exactly answer Georgie's question. If he could sum up all of the bands that he enjoyed, they wouldn't fit under just one category. Maybe a few categories, but definitely not one. He thought of the word "anything" and said the word aloud. He quickly corrected himself, seeing as how there were some things he absolutely couldn't listen to even if he tried. "Well, not anything. I can't explain it."

"Then... name a band or something." the goth sat with his knees to his chest and hunched over them as he sunk into the softness of Ike's bed.

Ike thought for a moment about all of his favorite bands. He didn't like one any more than another, so finding a favorite was difficult. He settled for the most recent band that he'd been listening to. "The Beatles." he blurted out, as though whatever his response was would receive harsh criticism.

As Ike had expected, the goth rolled his eyes. "Lame."

"Well, I like them."

"But _they're sell-outs_." Georgie blew away a few strands of his hair.

"So?"

Georgie scoffed. "Just you wait. One day Filmore and those popular assholes are going to start worshiping The Beatles and spread them around like AIDS in the 80's. They'll deem them to be the new thing and when they're finished and move on to something more awful like rap, they'll think you're uncool because you still listen to them."

Ike couldn't hide the tiniest of smiles on his face when he replied, "you're not much of an optimist, are you?"

"Do I look like sunshine and fairy tales to you? I'm just being realistic." the goth blew his bangs out of his face once more and decided that it was more helpful to just leave his hair the way it was.

"Yes, well..." Ike unfolded his arms and gripped the arms of his desk chair. "I'd like to enjoy my music until that happens, which I doubt it will."

"Suit yourself. You're only setting yourself up for disappointment anyways." Georgie coughed from the tightness that had formed in his chest with his legs there. "And after that comes pain and then you'll be wallowing around complaining that they stole your identity or some shit like that."

"Um..." Ike gave him a quizzical look. He, himself, could be negative sometimes but definitely not as much as Georgie. He couldn't help but wonder how the other boy could have ended up that way and, without even paying attention, watched him squirm around on the bed as though it would lead to any answers. He wore all black from head to toe and his hair appeared to be dyed the same shade as well. His dark attire was matched only by his dark demeanor. The only splash of color on the boy were his violet lips and Ike couldn't help but wonder about those as well. How could any boy their age wear makeup and still have self respect? Let alone respect from their peers. It didn't seem as though anyone questioned Georgie but he could always be wrong. He had only taken notice of the boy not too long ago. This was the first time since kindergarten that they were in the same class and-

"Quit staring." the goth ordered.

Ike shook his head. "What was that?"

"You were staring at me again. It's getting creepy."

"Oh, um, sorry." the Canadian blinked and rubbed his eyes.

"Did you hear what I said before?"

"What?"

"I said I was going to get my CD case and let you experience some Goth phenomenon. You were staring at me so I thought you were listening but maybe you were off somewhere saving Mary Jane in your superhero world." Georgie had leaned back and let his legs hang over the side. He shoved the jumbled up blankets aside to allow himself more room.

"Oh, no, uh..." Ike spun around in the chair and glanced out the window. He was able to crack a smile and said, "Okay. But if it turns me into a goth then my brother's going to kill you."

"Oooh, I feel threatened." Georgie deadpanned and stood up to put his feet on the carpet. He reached over to grab the mug set on the desk table and held it in between his hand, staring at the bottom of the cup at the little ring of black liquid still lingering. He took the mug over to the doorway and shook it a few times before asking, "mind if I get some more coffee?"

"Go ahead. You were probably going to get more anyways." Ike sat up on his knees and leaned over the back of the chair. Georgie pondered a moment knowing that he probably would, just like the other said. He shrugged and left the room to travel down the stairs and into the front room where he had left his belongings. It wasn't difficult for him to navigate his way around since the layout of the house was similar to his own. He found himself hunched over the grey messenger bag carelessly tossed into a corner next to the Broflovski's coat hanger. The buttons and pins on the flap of the bag rattled as he threw it back and proceeded to dig through its contents. Papers were crumbled and week old cigarette butts spat out tiny bits of tobacco at the bottom of the bag as he grasped the padded CD case and pulled it out triumphantly. He brushed some dirt off of it before standing up straight and turning to head back upstairs. But when his eyes looked up they were met by a pair of piercing brown eyes.

"What do you think you're doing, young man?" said the owner of the eyes. A short woman stood before him with her red hair pulled back in a bun and a fierce look on her round face. Her voice was obnoxious and nasally. "Hm?" she looked Georgie up and down, taking in his black attire, and her face seemed to scrunch a bit when she noticed violet lipstick adorned on his lips. It looked as though she wanted to ask, "you are a young man, right?" but she crossed her arms instead and waited for an answer.

"Are you Ike's mom?" the boy asked shyly, trying to avoid eye contact.

Her face relaxed a bit and she replied, "I am his mother." Her expression grew tense once again when she asked, "are you one of his friends? Isaac isn't supposed to have friends over without my permission, I'm afraid." Georgie shrugged. It was apparent that all of Ike's family had a hatred of any kind of alternative culture. The lady continued, "we've been trying so hard to get our little Ike to make some friends. I'll let it slip this time."

"Thank you, I guess, but I'm really just waiting for uh... Kyle to get back. He has my jacket in his car." the goth's fingers drummed against the CD case. Mrs. Broflovski glanced at the case and the mug in his other hand. Georgie felt uneasy with the chubby woman looking at him and could have sworn a bead of sweat ran down his neck.

"Oh, I see. Make yourself at home if need be. Who knows how long that boy will take..." she trailed off and walked away in the direction of the kitchen. Georgie heard the sound of a chair against the tiled floor and all hope of getting more of his favorite caffeinated beverage was lost. He looked down at the empty mug and frowned but forced himself to ascend the stairs.

He entered the Canadian's room moments later and set the mug down with a loud thump. "You're mom is scary." he stated. Ike was facing the direction of the window and humming what sounded like the Spiderman theme song. "Spiderman, Spiderman... does whatever a spider can..." Georgie tossed the padded case at Ike and it landed in the others lap. The boy cringed in his seat and picked up the case to hold in front of him.

"What?" Ike pulled on the zipper. "What did she say?" He opened the goth's CD collection and looked over the first compact disc, neatly tucked inside a pocket labeled "Bauhaus: Go Away White."

"She said something like, 'Oh, you're all creepy and dark, get out of my house. Wait, come back, my antisocial son needs your company.' And then she went into the kitchen, so I didn't bother to get more coffee." he sighed and collapsed into the creaking spring bed. He pointed at his CD's and apologized, "I'm sorry about my mother's OCD. She _alphabetized_ my music. Look for The Cure, we'll start with that."

Ike flipped through the pockets and pulled out one of the shiny discs. "Yeah, she can be intimidating." he agreed under his breath, holding the CD with care and reading the name. It was probably a copy because the name "pornography" was written on it with a scratchy Sharpie. Ike couldn't resist snickering at the name.

"So... did she punish you for that toilet incident?" Georgie crossed his arms and stared down the Canadian with the kind of look that begged for answers.

"Uh..." Ike smiled awkwardly, looking away from Georgie's face and instead watched droplets of water fall outside of his window. "I haven't told her about it yet. I'm waiting for the principal to call her." He accidentally touched the backside of the CD and quickly moved his fingers away from it.

"Why?"

"W-why?" Ike flinched. "Um, because I don't want to tell her?"

"No, I mean why were you clogging the toilet?" Georgie dared. "Conformists shit in those things." He leaned forward slightly, in a sort of accusative way that made Ike inched backwards in his seat.

"I don't h-have to say anything." he muttered.

"Yes, you do." Georgie insisted. "Or else I'll assume the worst. I'm guessing... you spawned some sort of tormented mutant soul out of an amphibian destined to be torn apart by barbaric simpletons on an autopsy table and the chemicals in the science lab that can distribute disease to those who tamper with them. Yeah, that's it." he made waving motions with his hands to try and think more and elaborate. "The educational droid was about to appear in the doorway, weeping and sobbing from the loss of the class's pet goldfish, so you had to hide the evidence that you were ever in the science lab in a watery cemetery. Spectators laughed cynically as you ran into the bathroom as quickly as you possibly could and stuffed your little mutant dead frog down into the abyss of the toilet. But its arms reached out and started grabbing at your throat, trying to stay on the surface world to live its miserably life, and you had to flush the toilet again and again until it finally sunk and met the eyes of mutant frog Death. And because you were afraid of it returning to seek revenge on you, you clogged the toilet with paper towels made by the hands of under payed laborers. Then I walked in and I said, 'what the fuck, dude!' and you ran away again because you were so ashamed of yourself. That's it, right?"

"Nope." Ike chuckled. "But we can say that's what happened."

Georgie slouched over, collecting his legs and holding them close to his chest. "It's not a satisfying answer, though."

"You must watch a lot of science fiction movies or something."

"Horror, actually. And I was trying to be poetic." the goth coughed. "Can you play that CD now?" he pointed to the CD that Ike held in between his fingers.

"Um, I don't actually have a CD player. I didn't know people still used these."

"And that is why people are lame." Georgie scoffed. He leaned forward and squinted to see which of the discs Ike had pulled out. With an approving nod, he said, "see if your laptop can play it."Ike obeyed and turned in his chair to face his desk and the computer set on top of it. He pulled himself forward and, with a click, opened the laptop and entered his password. He heard the goth talking behind him as the desktop image appeared on the screen. "This is from the era where records still ruled and a CD would have been a luxury item." Ike nodded, not paying full attention. He popped open the CD rom drive and inserted the disc. "I would kill for a cassette tape, though." Georgie continued. Eventually, the computer loaded the goth's music and drum beats began to fill the room. Georgie's matched the beats as he hit his knees with his fingers.

"You talk a lot." Ike pointed out, adjusting the volume on his computer. He quickly added, "but it's not a bad thing. It's just kind of surprising."

"Yeah, well..." the goth proceeded to drum against his knees even as the guitar and keyboards finally took control of the song. "I don't know why. I'm usually silent." he claimed, hitting against Ike's sheets. "Shut up and listen."

Forty seconds into the song and the vocalist began to sing. His voice was low and had what seemed to be an accent of sorts. _("It doesn't matter if we all die. Ambition in the back of a black car. In a high building there is so much to do. Going home time. A story on the radio.")_

Ike watched Georgie "drumming" with his eyes sewn shut, bobbing his head up and down as the music played. "You're a drummer?" he asked in a half question/half statement tone.

Through swaying hair, the goth nodded. ("_Something small falls out of your mouth and we laugh. A prayer for something better. A prayer_ _for something better._") Between breaks in the verses, the guitar strums were more defined and Ike tried to figure out which chords were being played. _("Please love me. Meet my mother. But the fear takes hold. Creeping up the stairs in the dark, waiting for the death blow.")_

"Does it bother you that the words don't rhyme?" Ike prodded. _("Waiting for the death blow.")_

"It's more like free verse poetry. You wouldn't get it." Georgie replied._ ("Waiting for the death blow.")_

The guitar continued to make stifled whining and Ike compared the sound to a cat in agonizing pain. All in all, though, he somewhat liked the song. It was very... _Dark. _There wasn't a chorus as far as he could tell, only what Georgie had called "free verse poetry."

Just before the next line, _("stroking your hair as the patriots are shot.")_, a loud knocking came from the door and light from the hall poured into the room. Although Georgie continued to drum against his leg with closed eyes, Ike jumped in his chair and quickly looked over at the teenager standing in the doorway. "I knew it!" the older boy said, holding the wooden door with his red gloved hands. The Canadian could barely make out who this person was but guessed that it was none other than Stan, accompanied by his older brother exposing his bright red curls from underneath his hat. Stan slowly inched his way into the room, waving at Ike. "Hey there, dude." He ran his hands through the boy's hair in a friendly noogie and leaned forward to see whatever was on the computer screen. With a smirk, he turned around to face Kyle taking off his jacket in the doorway. "See? I knew it was The Cure."

"I didn't say I doubted you, Stan." Kyle frowned a bit. The music continued to fill the room. _("Sharing the world with slaughtered pigs.")_ The ginger shook his head and glanced at Georgie, who looked between all three of them. "He's still here?" he asked Ike, slightly astounded. Ike nodded and reached for the mouse pad on his laptop to pause the music. "You were playing that music so loud that I guess you didn't hear us pull up in the driveway." Kyle said. His younger brother just slid his feet onto the carpet and stood up to stretch.

"You kind of sped away with my jacket." the goth informed Kyle, glaring at the teenager in the brown leather jacket. Stan looked down at him sitting on the bed with his legs pulled to his chest in the familiar way he had always done.

"Aren't you that Shadow kid?" he asked, shoving his hands in his front jeans pockets.

"Aren't you that backstabber conformist, Raven?" Georgie nearly spat back. Stan backed up, leaning into the corner of Ike's desk.

"Hey, sorry I didn't realize you left your jacket behind." Kyle intervened, sniffling a bit through his triangular nose. "I'll get it on your way out. So, kid," he said, still unsure of what to call the younger teenager, "are you staying for dinner?"

Georgie pulled his gaze away from Stan and released his legs from the safety of his arms. "I should get back to my own Hell hole." he forced himself to stand and made his way over to the door. Light creaking came from the floor boards beneath his steps. "Excuse me." he squeezed past Kyle in the door way and started for the stairs. The others spilled out into the hall, almost knocking over a framed picture hung loosely on the wall. Ike trotted closely behind the goth as the rest followed him into the living area. Stan and Kyle broke off to grab a snack in the kitchen.

"Hey, Georgie, what about your CD's?" Ike said, holding the padded case in his hands. Georgie hovered above his messenger bag and swiftly turned his head to look over his shoulder. He snatched the case and stuffed it into the bag, flipping the cover of the messenger over to close it before swinging the strap onto his shoulder. Ike stood, fidgeting with his hands while the other boy jammed his feet into his black canvas shoes. From the kitchen, Mrs. Broflovski was audibly talking and her voice could be heard from the front of the house. "Oh, thank you for picking up your father's package, Kyle."

"You can borrow that other CD, if you want. Just give it back on Monday." Georgie instructed, twisting his ankle a bit in his tattered shoe. Ike nodded and shifted from foot to foot.

The older Broflovski boy appeared from the other room, jingling his car keys. "No problem, mom!" he exclaimed, stopping in front of the front door. He shook the set of keys in front of the goth, taking hold of the doorknob with his other hand. With one quick gesture, the door was wide open and Kyle was darting into the cold air to get to the silver hybrid resting in the driveway. Georgie advanced gradually outside behind him and waited as eagerly as any gloomy teenager could while rocking back and forth on his heals on the front step. Ike poked his head out from inside and a thick drop of water splashed on the top of his shaggy black hair from the rim of a second floor window. He shuddered and looked up to see Kyle pulling a long black jacket from the back of his car triumphantly. He threw the coat over his shoulder and dove back in to grab Georgie's umbrella, backing out and bumping into their mother's car. He hastily slammed the door behind him.

"See you at school." Georgie stepped onto the walkway to repossess his belongings from Kyle.

"Yeah, seeya." Ike called after him, ducking back inside and shutting the door subtly.

The red head handed over the trench coat but looked over Georgie's shoulder at the front entrance now closed. "Wait a second, Ike!" he yelled and shoved the still wet umbrella at the shorter boy. He rushed to the door and jostled the golden handle. When it didn't open, he shouted again, "Ike! Open the door you little turd!" He threw his fists at the door and pounded against it, receiving confused looks from the goth as he yanked his arm through the sleeve of the black jacket. The older boy sighed and looked over at Georgie. "He always locks the door on me." he complained. Georgie merely shrugged and gave him an unimpressed look before forcing his other arm into the second sleeve.

"You had it coming, then." Georgie scoffed and took his first step down the street towards home.

Halfway down the block, the boy heard another muffled plead for reentry. The door swung open and he heard Kyle say, "Thanks, Stan." Georgie snickered to himself, stopping in his tracks to dig for his cigarette package and lighter in the pocket of his trench coat. He snatched a cigarette and held it in his hand, lighting it up seconds later. He brought the paper stick up to his violet lips and took in a well deserved drag.

666

**A/N: Tell me what you guys think :D I'm mostly concerned about if this is going too slowly and if it's boring everyone.**

The song in this chapter is called "One Hundred Years" by The Cure and should be considered a Gothic anthem. The song itself is so full of angst that it's humorous. "It doesn't matter if we all die." Yep.


	6. Teenage Angst

**A/N: Sorry guys, it's taken over a month to finish this chapter (wut wut?). I'd really love to be able to work nonstop on this story, like a slaving little elf, but I have other things to attend to; people to avoid, essays to procrastinate on, illustrations to render. You get the idea. Anyways, sometimes when there aren't brilliant ideas ricocheting through my brain I turn to my reviews and reread them over and over again for motivation. That's your cue to review! :D (and I'm pleased with the number of reviews that this story is getting. Thank you so much, guys. You know who you are. I don't owe you all personalized thank yous, do I?)**

**Also, in other news, my love for Jhonen Vaquez has been replenished and the Earth may begin going about its usual business once more.**

**I've grown lazy with the disclaimer message. The fans should know who South Park belongs to, or else they're just a bunch of yuppies.**

666

The Broflovskis sat quietly around their old wooden dining table, each chewing away at their kosher meals and steamed vegetables as Stan told everyone about what had happened in his football practice the other day. Sheila made a couple of remarks and Gerald, finally home from work, laughed alongside their oldest son at his friend's story. "And then I passed the ball to Clyde and he totally dropped it and everyone else practically dog piled him to grab it. I felt sorry for the guy." he stuffed his cheeks full of green beans and Kyle snickered, telling him that it would be a horrible sight to see Eric Cartman on top of said pile. Throughout the "elaborate" tale of events, Ike eyed the older teenagers from behind a glass of Coke and wondered how the two had remained friends for so long.

Stan was a plain old average jock, the exact image you might see in your head when you thought of a stereotypical American boy. He had muscles from playing sports but not enough to make him seem intimidating. Stubble had started to form along his jaw line. He had a thick head of black hair and a laid back personality that the girls, including Stan's girlfriend that Ike had forgotten the name of, went crazy for. He listened to every kind of music out there; rock, country, pop, indie, and apparently The Cure. Stan was also popular because of his status on the football team at school. He was an overall cool guy. Yet he and Kyle had managed to stay friends, best friends, since before preschool. Perhaps, Ike thought, if it wasn't for the Marsh kid, Kyle would be at the bottom of the food chain in their high school. His brother was studious, received A+'s on many of his assignments, and, worst of all, was part of the one man army of South Park, the JJJ's. Ike pondered for a second, bringing his finger to his chin in a thoughtful manner. Jew, Jersey and... Jinger? Whoever had come up with that must not have known how to spell. But, without Stan, Kyle would definitely be at the bottom of the social hierarchy at school, probably eating lunch with "that kid with a lisp and diabetes" or even the "ugly" clique, mostly because they would be quiet whenever he read books during lunch.

The Canadian absentmindedly clashed his silverware together, tapping his fork against the rim of his plate. He held his head with one lax hand and listened to the conversation, not taking much interest in anything.

The topic had changed, and his mother was fussing over his older brother now. "Congratulations on making the honor roll!" Ike had heard it before. Of course he respected Kyle, but he resented him a lot of the time for stealing the spotlight at the dinner table. Kyle scored a 97% on his finals, Kyle has a date tomorrow night, Kyle this, Kyle that. Ike rolled his eyes and took another sip of his soda. He missed the times when he was the center of attention, but now he was old enough to take care of himself. His shenanigans ceased to draw any concern, but when he did manage to stir some trouble that caught everyone by surprise, Kyle was always blamed for it for not being a satisfactory role model. Ike glanced over at his brother soaking up praise from their parents and his best friend. Ike could easily make honor roll when he got into high school. But would he receive anything more than a pat on the back? No. He was expected to get into such high standard social circles.

_Besides_, he told himself, _everyone knows honor roll is for nerds who smoke pot behind everyone's back_.

Kyle caught his gaze from across the table and asked, "You okay?"

Ike shrugged, faked a smile and took a bite out of his mashed potatoes despite the fact that no, he wasn't okay at all.

Everyone fell silent after a few moments and went back to the clatter of silverware and chewing their food. Stan made idle chit chat with Mr. Broflovski about the new season for the Park County hockey team and Ike begged him telepathically not to bring it up in front of him. The older teenager didn't get the memo and said, "The team hasn't been the same since Ike left."

The Canadian pinched the bridge of his nose, a trait he had picked up from Stan and Kyle, and turned to his mother for the verbal right to leave the table. He practically whined, "May I be excused?" At the head of the table, Gerald nodded with agreement with what Stan had said. Ike mentally stabbed himself and looked up at Sheila with his best half-ass puppy eyes.

"Go ahead, bubbaluh, mommy will get your plate." she replied, not even giving him a glance as her husband and Stan continued their conversation.

"Yep, Ike was pretty great at offense."

"He sure was."

Ike felt that whenever there was a discussion about him, it was always about what he could be and what he had used to do. Couldn't he, for once, receive praise anytime he mastered a song on his guitar? Or found something that he hadn't learned about yet? Or won an award for his excellence as a student? Or even beat Kyle at a video game?

His parents weren't impressed by those sorts of things anymore.

Maybe that was why he'd become rebellious. The inner workings of his mind told him to do things because he, the adopted child, needed more attention and affection. He contemplated this idea, tossing it around in his thoughts, while he drank the last sip of his Coke. He decided, 'that's it. I'll just tell them straight out.'

Ike set his fork and knife down loudly in order to attract all eyes to himself. Gerald, along with everyone else, stopped whatever it was that they were doing to look up at the younger son. The boy pushed his chair out and stood up, announcing, "By the way, I have detention all of next week." And before the others could quite process what they had just been told, he was already mounting the stairs to his bedroom.

Hidden from the dining room table, he waited impatiently at the top of the steps for a "What, what, what!" But it never came. Only silence. Disappointed, he entered his room to conceal himself in the safety of his own space.

Sheila brought her napkin to the tips of her lips. "That boy that was over," she pointed at the door with her fork, "whatever his name was, is a bad influence on our son." She said it matter-of-factly, in the tone that everyone knew she used when she was serious. It was the voice that everyone feared would spark some righteousness in her that normally led to town meetings. Kyle sighed and shook his head, muttering that his mother was only exaggerating and that Ike had simply gone into his defiant teenager phase.

666

As Georgie sat at the edge of his mattress, surrounded by the flickering of candle light and the scratching noises of quill pens against notebook paper, he couldn't help but feel at ease with the familiarity of it all. Here he was, breathing in the assuring fumes of four cigarettes and half ignoring Henrietta as she complained about "some bitch in my creative writing class." She was saying how everyone knew them as the goth kids, and everyone outside of their social clique never understood their pessimistic views on life, telling them that their pain was fake and in return being called a bitch, douchebag or conformist. On occasion, these so-called "conformists" included Georgie's parents, who were currently watching a movie in their bedroom and trying to avoid the obnoxiously loud and gloomy Sisters of Mercy song that played from their son's radio. For the time being, he was at peace in his bedroom with his acquaintances. His parents didn't even know that an extra three teenagers inhabited their house. The oldest of the group, Evan, bobbed his head in agreement with whatever Henrietta was saying about her "communist cunt-of-a-classmate." All Georgie could think about was how badly he wanted to take the creative writing class and what possibilities high school would bring forth. Possibilities? Oh, right, he was supposed to be goth. Possibilities and future-mindedness weren't goth. Only smoking, drinking coffee and causing pain and suffering for those around them. Georgie fell back onto his bedspread, kicking his legs out straight and almost hitting Dylan in the bottom of his worn out violet shoe.

"You know what sucks about your house, Georgia?" the older teenager jerked his neck to get his hair out of his face, "We can't go upstairs and raid your kitchen for coffee." Dylan adjusted himself on the thin rug that protected him from the concrete floor. He took whatever he could to keep warm in the chilly underground room, trying not to give the others a sign that he was freezing in his itchy red and black striped sweater. Being cold was conformist. He leaned against the grey brick walls, waiting for the younger goth's full attention. Georgie lifted his head slightly from where he laid flat on the mattress.

With what could only be the demeanor of a sociopath, the boy replied, "Well, that sucks then, doesn't it, Red? Because I might have been allowed to leave this place had I not been grounded for the weekend. We could be at the Village Inn bitching at that waitress if my mom wasn't such a bitch herself." He let his head fall back down in defeat, seeing as how he would never kick the habit of calling his mom a bitch. He told himself that it was true, though, because she definitely could be considered one.

"Just be glad we came, dude." Dylan coughed into his fist and proceeded to jot down ideas for his poetry.

"Yeah, Dylan, be glad we came." Evan said from his seat on the bedside table. He had made room for himself by moving some of Georgie's empty mugs that were once filled with his favorite unsweetened coffee. "He would have cursed us out for leaving him out of _anything_ relatively exciting."

"Fuck you guys." Georgie smirked, throwing his arms over his eyes.

"Your room is suitable for a bat." Henrietta commented. She added, "It's frigid and dark. It would be perfect for cult meetings, too." The others nodded, either in agreement or in sync with the music. "Why'd the old hag ground you anyways? It's not like you were out getting wasted in some alley or anything like that."

The youngest goth rubbed his eyes against his sleeves. He replied, "Because I got home late and my mom was freaking out as though I was abducted or some shit like that."

"Well, why were you late?"

After a few moments of silence, the boy poked one eye out from under his arm to stare at his older "friend." She exhaled a large cloud of smoke from her chubby lips. Georgie admired her shredded Rammstein t-shirt and, for a second, imagined her cutting the shirt up herself with a very do-it-yourself intuition. For a second, he had forgotten about her question and stared at his ceiling to think. He wondered if whatever he said could be used against him. A sudden wave of dread rushed to his thoughts. Would they disown him if they knew he was hanging out at an unworthy conformist's house? What would they think? He felt like this was the enactment of one of his older poems where he was eaten alive by rodents. Him: innocent, rodents: peer pressure, society, life. He was zoned out, thinking, until Evan poked him in the ribs with the end of his cane. He looked over and saw the expectant scowls on their faces, the glow from the ends of their cigarettes emphasizing their features. He finally spat out, "I didn't feel like going home right away." He knew that it was, at least, remotely true.

"That's acceptable."

Seeing as how the dialogue was no longer interesting, Dylan and Evan dropped out of the conversation and had taken to bickering about who was better: The Sisters of Mercy or Joy Division. The curly haired teenager had pointed out that a lot of college kids, like his older brother, had taken a liking for Joy Division, regardless of if they actually listened to them or not. They had ended the discussion with "if hipsters like them, then The Sisters of Mercy are way more killer." The majority of the group agreed, but the youngest simply didn't care at that moment. The boy sighed and asked, "How easy do you think it would be to convert a conformist to a nonconformist?"

Dylan quickly flipped to a page in his notebook, reading a line from one of his latest poems out loud, "_proselytizing the enemy to our way of life_..." he then blew his fringe away from his face and muttered, "unheard of."

"It depends on the person." Henrietta said bluntly, indulged in her notebook. "I think we all know that."

What she had said was entirely true, seeing as how a small amount of kids from their school had, at one point or another, gone through a "goth phase" of their own. Ever since the Raven episode, however, they literally scared away all those who asked to join their circle of trust. No one who had problems with their own friends, troubles at home or had a harsh breakup with their girlfriend/boyfriend was allowed to wear black, recite poetry or consider themselves goth, because the real goths knew that their emotional episodes would only be short lived and they would be back to their fairytale world the very next day. Georgie always wondered about these strict unwritten rules and questioned why they weren't able to expand their group and allow others to enter. They were skeptical of everyone and their ability to remain dark and in despair, put trust in no one, especially Stan Marsh. And when Dylan asked, "Why do you ask?" it was the "Raven" that Georgie thought of.

In reality though, he speculated whether or not a certain Ike Broflovski could be swayed into goth culture. After all, he showed... well, potential was too nice of a word. The point was that Georgie felt undeniably lonesome, and this made him hate how dependent he was on his older friends. He mentally smacked himself for needing to be with them because he knew he had grown too reliant. He recalled the first few times he had hung out with them in kindergarten, how they had started calling him their shadow, and how that little nickname had become his goth name. He was but a mere shadow to this highly respectable trio of darklings and he was ready to become much more than that. All he had to do was realize it.

Georgie sighed and agreed with what Dylan had said earlier. Coffee would be nice right about then.

After a while of silence, the goth kids had forgotten about the subject and proceeded to sit in their usual circle. They were quiet for a lengthy amount of time, just writing poetry, expressing their opinions on bands, and complaining about the vampires that were trying to take over the gymnasium during lunch again. The youngest of the quartet tried to hide the slightest of smiles behind his writing notebook. He enjoyed spending their time together exactly like this.

666

Later on that night, Georgie took the liberty of curling up in his bed while he stared blankly at the pages of his H.P. Lovecraft novel. Dim light emitted from a melting skull-shaped candle, just bright enough to be able to read, but the boy didn't entirely comprehend the words as his eyes skimmed over them. Hours ago, after his fellow goths had disappeared into the night through his basement window (he guessed it was for a session of band practice), he'd started to hear muffled voices coming from the second floor of his house. Then came loud creaking from the floorboards and a door slamming that had shaken the entire house and made one of the concert posters on his ceiling fall onto the concrete floor. He assured himself that if he had the energy, he would get up and turn on his radio to drown out the noise, maybe even pick up the poster that had fallen, but he just didn't feel like it. This scenario, he thought once again, was all too familiar.

He dabbed his index finger on his tongue and flipped the page, turning it to the next three-digit numbered paper, even though he wasn't paying attention to the actual text. It didn't matter, though, he had read the book at least twenty times since he was little, and each time he read it he could have sworn the binding had grown looser. There was another slamming of doors that Georgie assumed was coming from the front entry way, followed by several pattering footsteps rushing down the stairs that trailed behind the loud noise. He sighed, closing the book and setting it beside his pillow. The tip of his nose was probably red from the frigid air of his basement living space and he drew his thick dark colored covers over his head. The reading glasses fixed on the bridge of his nose made clacking noises as they were shifted around and he quickly took them off, setting them on top of his beloved book. From outside of his window, a car unlocked with a click and its door slammed seconds later. Georgie imagined his dad, tall and bearded, locking himself inside the vehicle because that was only predictable of him. And his mother... 3...2...1...

There was a soft tapping coming from the door at the top of the cheap wooden stairs. In the midst of his thoughts, Georgie played out the step-by-step process of his parents' arguments in his head; _blah, blah, watch a movie together to try and dowse the "fire," blah, someone makes a statement, they argue about conformist things like money and how dad has been spending it, dad yells and threatens to leave but goes out to the car and stays there instead of leaving, mom comes crawling downstairs to her fragile son to apologize for the noise._ "George? Are you sleeping?" the mother's voice said from upstairs.

_No, mother, I'm practicing my sacrificial ceremonies for the devil. What do you think?_

"No." he simply replied, just audible enough for his mom to hear him and enter without any verbal permission. The door made a squeak as it was opened, and the rather short woman crept down each step in her slippers. She stopped at the bottom step in her night robe tied tightly to her almost scrawny figure. Georgie kicked the blankets just enough so that he could look up at her and glare. The intensity of her son's eyes made Mrs. Martin a bit more reluctant to approach him, but she cautiously stepped forward into his ten foot diameter personal bubble. The boy sent her hateful mental messages through his thoughts, but asked out loud, "What do you want, Patricia?"

She stood unsure of what to do next, despite the fact that this was all part of some fixed game plan, and slumped down on her son's mattress. She felt around with her petite hands for his legs under the thick barrier covering them and patted what felt like his ankle. He retracted his appendages and sat up more to see what she was doing. She placed her hands in her lap neatly and looked down at the rug where Georgie's friends were sitting just hours before. Her jaw went slack, exposing her (noticeably) off white teeth, and she had the look of a kicked puppy. At these moments, the only thing that made her human and not an abused animal was her scientific name. Her greying blond hair hung in her face, hiding her profile as she spoke. "You didn't hear any of that, did you?"

"No." he stared at her for a few minutes, taking in the silence. Neither of them made any movements. They merely sat in the dark room with the candle flickering while Mrs. Martin's hand softly pat her son's leg from above the blanket. He suddenly rioted, sitting up and pulling his leg to his chest. The woman glanced over, taking note of the dark grey boxers with pictures of tombstones covering them that he wore as pajama bottoms. She wondered if he ever felt cold downstairs even though he never complained about his "perfect environment." He quickly added, "Go away." When she didn't budge and looked back down at the floor, he reached over to turn on his lamp. The light flooded the room and he scooted backwards, gathering his legs again and hugging them.

"It smells like cigarettes in here." she asked quietly, completely ignoring his hostility. When Georgie seemed to shrink a little in his place, she regretted saying anything at all. He refused to speak anymore and took to comparing the color of her hair to her teeth. "How have you been doing in school? And otherwise. I always feel like a terrible mother because there's so little... communication between us. I feel like this is why you're so rebellious. I know you're probably upset that I grounded you, but I'm trying to understand. Where were you earlier?" Her son simply continued to stare at her, seeing her become absorbed in the idea that he was out with his older friends, his horrible role models, the reasons why he wasn't a happy child and was obsessed with all things that went against the main stream. He knew that, no matter what, she wouldn't trust his answer as the truth. She blamed everything on his friends.

He held his knees tighter and never replied. For what seemed like half an hour, they sat on the mattress without saying a word to each other. He'd closed his eyes after a while and Patricia, his "loving and caring" mother, had mistaken his relaxed face as being asleep. She moved closer to him to wrap her arms around his body and whispered something incomprehensible before retracting her arms and getting up. He pretended to be sleeping, blocking her out and never saying "good night, I love you" back.

As soon as he heard the door at the top of the stairs close shut, he pulled out his leather notebook from its hiding place between the little bedside table and the wall. He was so intent on getting his thoughts out onto paper at that moment that every letter he wrote was barely visible from the fading ballpoint pen. Maybe his reasons behind his hatred of his life was exaggerated, like the conformists always said, but he continued to write:  
_  
Blood seeps from the ceiling to the floor  
from the gory wars above my crypt._

_Shards of broken glass litter the past_

_and leave us in a mass of scar tissue._

He scratched the back of his neck, feeling satisfied with the first few lines, and decided that he wouldn't dwell on the subject any longer before drifting off to sleep.

666

"So, tell me, Ike," and with the mention of his name, the boy turned around, "How has your week been?"

He'd been plucked from the safety of the floral patterned chair in the lobby outside and had to leave behind his peaceful mindset when he pulled out his headphones. "Transatlanticism" calmed his nerves when being played on high volume, and Ike would have liked to have at least listened to "A Lack of Color" once more before entering the room that he sat in every Saturday afternoon from 2:00 PM to 3:00 PM. He wiped sweat from his palms onto his dark blue denim jeans, facing the brunette woman across from him on a faux leather couch. He bent down to sit on the matching couch opposite to her, and in the process dropped the iPod that was cradled loosely in his pocket. He immediately snatched it up and placed it in his lap, looking up at his counselor with a smile that told her, "I'm good. Everything is fine. Next question, please, for the love of God, ask a different question."

Dr. Cohen eyed his actions with a raised, perfectly trimmed eyebrow. Her gaze implied that she was suspicious, and he knew that she could see right through his pleading smile. That was one of the main aspects of psychologists that Ike feared the most; they were able to deduct what every little movement meant, every single gesture, and it made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. He certainly wasn't as paranoid as the blonde boy that he saw unloading boxes at Tweak Bros. Coffee occasionally, the one that Kyle tried to assure would never be molested by undergarment gnomes. No, Ike wasn't crazy. He just had a disliking for therapists, a distrust that had only grown more and more over the years.

"Isaac, your parents aren't paying thirty dollars an hour for you to stare out the window and not say a word." said the unlikeable therapist.

Ike looked away from the condensation appearing on the glass window from the rain, denying himself the ability to simply watch the blonde coffee store cashier across the street that he had his eyes and thoughts fixed on for the past two or three minutes. He looked Dr. Cohen in the eyes, and dared, "They might as well."

The brunette pushed her wire rimmed spectacles up her petite nose and sighed, "You're my favorite client, you know." But this was clearly not the case. The Canadian wanted to inform her that she said that to everyone. She scribbled the date at the corner of her page of notes and looked up, "Alright, let's get down to business. How have you been doing lately?"

A typical question from Dr. Cohen. Ike fiddled with the block of plastic music player in his lap, staring down at it. He stared at the screen, and remembered his need to listen to Death Cab for Cutie, the Cure album that was loaned out to him, and what Georgie had said the day before about The Beatles. Rather than taking offense to the goth's comment, however, Ike felt a minor admiration for anyone who was courageous enough to not like the British quartet. Eventually, he opened his mouth to speak and his usual stubborn side was suppressed.

By the end of his counseling session, Ike was glad to tell his father that he had talked about a lot of topics with his therapist. Dr. Cohen now had multiple pages of notes regarding Ike's interpersonal thoughts, opinions, feelings, and a plentiful amount of notations that he had expressed about a certain unnamed brooding goth 8th grader.

Dr. Cohen's advice: "Get to know this boy, it makes my job easier."

666

**A/N: Mmm... listening to Death Cab For Cutie now.**

**Filler chapter anyone? Here is a side note: I've determined that Ike has social anxiety disorder in my story. Common symptoms: clammy hands, hatred of any and all social situations, isolating oneself, and fear of being judged.**

**The last section of this chapter was a bit half-assed, and was supposed to be much more serious, but it needed a little comic relief with a sarcastic therapist who doesn't quite know exactly what she's doing. I've been in counseling before, so believe me when I say that I know what real sessions are like. They're hard to portray through writing, and excruciatingly long.**


End file.
